


The Coffeeshop Fire

by Huffleporg



Series: The Coffeeshop Fire [1]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Business Rivalry, Intrigue, Librarians, Lots of plots but they all tie in together trust me, Multi, Mystery, Slow Burn, Sprawling Narrative
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-05-06 01:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14630934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huffleporg/pseuds/Huffleporg
Summary: Down in the Beverage District, a work of investigative journalism into the rivalry between two coffee shops leads to four calls to the City Health Inspector's office from J.S., three detentions, two fires, and one broken sugar bowl.





	1. The Sugar Bowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After losing her job at Prufrock Prep, a former librarian decides to take a chance.

_Beautiful image by gravity on Shadowplay!_

She couldn’t pace back and forth in the alley forever. Between the necessity of nourishment and the foul odor of spoiled milk coming from the dumpster, Olivia Caliban knew that she had to find her courage. “You can do this,” she murmured to herself, adjusting her grip on her resume so as to not crumple it. “You have to do this. If you want to afford food and make rent.” Moving back home to her parents was no longer an option, neither was begging her sister to take her in, though for an entirely different reason. “You’re not a failure.” Just a victim of budget cuts, cruel administrations, and a landlord that was demanding far too much for a cramped studio apartment. “This isn’t admitting defeat.” When she had graduated with her masters in library sciences, she had never thought that she would ever find herself standing anxiously in an alley of the beverage district about to apply for a job she was overqualified for, but had no choice but to seek. “It’s just a-”

A door into the alley burst open behind Olivia, making her jump. She spun around to see a rail thin man standing in on the stoop, a pack of cigarettes in his hand. The man’s shiny blue eyes fixed on Olivia as he slid a white cigarette out of the pack, almost daring her to explain just what she was doing in the alley.

Olivia straightened herself up, summoning as much courage as she hoped to bring to The Sugar Bowl. “Smoking will kill you, you know,” she said to the man.

The man’s one eyebrow furrowed with annoyance. “Good,” he said. He took a box of matches from his apron pocket. 

Olivia shook her head and walked from the alley, the clicking of her heels drowning out the sound of a match being struck. “Disgusting,” she murmured, unsure whether she felt the adjective applied more to the habit, the man, or the alleyway. She went down a block of brick sidewalk, past a dairy shop with a display of cows in the window, a bar closed until dinner time, and a shop selling empty bottles, and finally reached the crosswalk. A glance in both directions and then she hurried across the street, finally standing in front of the place she hoped would be her next job.

“Help Wanted” the sign in the window read. The last time she had been here, she had only noted the presence of the sign in the window of The Sugar Bowl as she waited for her coffee and pastry on her way to what she hadn’t known was her last day of work. Now the coffee shop wasn’t the only one who needed help.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia checked her reflection in the window, just to make sure that none of her hair had snuck out of her bun. She gave a tug on her flowery blouse, straightening it out. “‘Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear,’” Olivia quoted softly to herself before she strode determinedly over to the class door. As soon as she opened it, Olivia was wrapped in the familiar rich smell of coffee and sweetness of freshly baked treats. 

The shop was in a mid morning lull, Olivia noted as she walked up to the counter. Only a table and a couple of the sumptuous armchairs were occupied, though Olivia supposed that there could be a few people lurking amidst the bookshelves she herself had browsed several times before today. At least there would only be a few people who would be witness to this.

“Olivia, right?” asked the man behind the counter, smiling kindly.

Mouth dry, Olivia nodded.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been in,” the man went on.

“Thirteen days.” Thirteen days since Vice Principal Nero had rudely informed her the school no longer needed a librarian. Thirteen days of frantically trying to find some way to make a living wage.

The man reached over for a medium cup. “Well, I’m Larry, your barista. And if I remember right, it’s a soy latte with some caramel. And whichever pastry strikes your fancy.”

“It is,” said Olivia, “but I’m actually not here to purchase anything.” She held out her resume so Larry could read it. “I’m here for a job.”

The barista blinked. “Oh, well, that is a surprise.”

“Was a surprise for me as well, though I suppose it shouldn’t have been. My hours kept on getting cut, and now…”

Larry’s smile returned, only with an empathetic tone. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I hope that we can help you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m going to get one of the owners. One of them is always around.” He lifted up a black curtain to the back room and vanished from sight.

She leaned against the counter, feeling her blouse sticking to her back with her nervous sweat. She didn’t have long to wait before Larry was back with another man following close behind. As Larry stepped aside allowing her to see the man’s face, Olivia felt her nervous reach a fever pitch. 

“Olivia, this is Jacques Snicket, co-owner of The Sugar Bowl,” said Larry.

Her gaze only flicked back to Larry for a moment before once again focusing on Jacques.

“Jacques, this is Olivia Caliban.”

Jacques Snicket extended a hand, “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Caliban.”

For a moment, she stared at the hand before remembering her manners. “Pleasure’s mine,” she said, trying not to let nerves or any other emotions break her voice.

“If you follow me, we can speak in the office.” He motioned for her to come around the counter.

As Olivia walked around to the other side, she couldn’t shake the feeling of transgression as she crossed into a part of the coffee shop that previously had been off limits - not that it would have ever occurred to her to be tempted to venture into the behind the scenes of her favorite cafe. Following Jacques to the other side of the black curtain, Olivia said, “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Snicket.”

“Jacques,” offered the man. He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a small smile. “You have quite an impressive resume. Not the usual we get here.” He led her into a hot kitchen with racks and racks of baked goods and ingredients. “Larry was a waiter before he found his way here.”

“I worked at a coffee shop in college, and part of grad school,” said Olivia. 

“I did see that.” They stopped before a closed door. Jacques reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. “But, I would have thought that a librarian like yourself would have sought out employment in a library or bookstore.” He unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a tiny office with a desk, a couple of chairs, and shelves stacked with books. 

“I tried that,” said Olivia. “But the library said that it’s not in their budget to hire another librarian this year. I can’t afford to relocate to Lake Lachrymose. And all the bookshops seem to have gone out of business.” 

Wordlessly, Jacques motioned for her to sit down in one of the chairs facing the desk, himself leaning up against the desk.

In the crowded office, barely a yard separated the former librarian from the man. From her seated position, she had to crane her neck upwards in order to see his face. “So, when it became clear that those options were, in fact, not options,” Olivia continued, “I found myself in a quandary. I’d rather work in my vocation, but I need a job, otherwise…” She found her gaze falling to the floor.

“I understand.” Jacques voice was soft, comforting. 

Olivia swallowed. “I began to ask myself, where could I stand to be for several hours a day, and maybe even enjoy myself a little, and The Sugar Bowl came to mind,” she said timidly. “I’ve always enjoyed coming here. The coffee you serve is the best, and the atmosphere…” She lifted her eyes up to his warm brown eyes, “it’s the closest thing to a library that isn’t in fact a library.”

“There’s a reason for that,” said Jacques with a grin. “See, when Beatrice and I opened The Sugar Bowl, we were thinking about the coffee houses of old Europe, where intellectuals would gather and discuss philosophy, politics, and art. We wanted our customers to be like us: well-read and able to appreciate a cup of well-brewed coffee, who would find a debate about the use of a comma in a particular poem stimulating.” He paused for a moment, fixing her with an evaluative look. “I do think you’ll find yourself quite at home here. Unlike other coffee shops where it’s get-in, get-out, and the same decaf coffee has been sitting on the burner since six… and the tea is weak and you can never find napkins, and…”

Olivia shifted in her seat, frowning. 

“And you wonder if the proprietor has bathed this week.”

“I tend to avoid those establishments,” said Olivia, fairly sure from the ad hominem nature of the most recent criticism that things had taken a personal turn. 

Jacques nodded approvingly. “A wise choice.” He cleared his throat and walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down. “And I think it would be a wise choice for to offer you a position here, Olivia. The Sugar Bowl could certainly use a librarian.” 

Relief washed over Olivia. “Oh thank you. Thank you so much, Jacques.” She wouldn’t have to spend another week living off of her dwindling savings that had not even been past the triple digits before she had lost her job. 

“When can you start?” he asked.

“I can start right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After working at a coffeeshop, I swore that I would never write any contribution to the AU genre. And then one day I realized that the way my former boss ran things was pretty much the way that Count Olaf would run a coffee shop. This AU fic emerged very soon after that realization. I therefore apologize to everyone for adding to the coffeeshop AU genre.
> 
> This is a story with several intersecting plot lines, so it is not completely tied to Olivia's point of view. I hope to have the next chapter up very soon so you can better see just what this fic is going to look like.
> 
> Notes for this chapter: Olivia quoted Mark Twain.
> 
> I'm excited to hear what you think.


	2. A Spark of Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pay no attention to the man using a dirty sheet as a curtain.   
> But I wouldn't recommend turning your back on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been told by the person who kept on trying to push a ASOUE coffee shop AU over on Tumblr that the world is not ready for what this chapter contains. So, prepare yourselves. And maybe get a couple shots, since I think you might need them.

As the trolley rolled away, Isadora turned to her brother. “You know, if we’re talking about investigating and exposing the seedy underbelly of our city, I still think that writing about how Vice Principal Nero closed the school library would be perfect,” she said. “It’s completely atrocious for a school not to have a functioning library, and I’m sure that there’s at least two instances of corruption that you could expose.” There were dozens of topics Isadora could think of that would suit the prompt that the Times’ Annual Young Journalist Contest had provided, but it seemed that the possibility of getting published in a national newspaper - a “real” newspaper, unlike The Daily Punctilio, as he had said - had inspired Duncan to think outside of the box. 

“It is a disgrace,” agreed Duncan, walking towards the center of the beverage district. “But, like I said before, I think you should enter the contest with that story.”

Isadora shook her head. “I’m a poet, not a journalist.”

“And who says that poets can’t also write journalism? You certainly know how to research like one.”

Isadora smiled at her brother’s affirmation of her investigative skills. “Thank you, but I think I’ll stick to my couplets. And besides, if I won and you didn’t, you’d be upset, and I’d feel awful.”

Giving his sister a little nudge with his elbow, Duncan said, “Oh, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.”

With a roll of her eyes, Isadora quickly composed, “ _Duncan, remember there is hubris, / And don’t ever doubt your dear sis._ ” It was hardly her best poem, but it certainly suited the moment. 

“I wasn’t saying that I’m arrogant enough to think I’d win,” said Duncan. His tone wasn’t defensive, merely intent on correcting a misperception. “Just that I wouldn’t ever be upset because you won something. If you wrote a brilliant piece of journalism and it won the contest, I’d frame a copy of that article and--”

“We turn here,” interjected Quigley, pointing down to the left. The third triplet spent enough hours studying maps that both his brother and his completely trusted his sense of direction, even in a part of the city that they had only been in a handful of times before. “I think you should enter the contest too, Isadora. You’re passionate about it, and that should make for a very good story.”

“Well, if I’m entering, you should enter too, Quigley,” Isadora said.

“I think I’ll be busy enough helping Duncan out with his.” Quigley began to slow down, looking at the numbers on the buildings. Likewise, Isadora and Duncan scanned the numbers of the shop. 

“Thanks again for assisting,” Duncan said.

“What are brothers for.”

“And sisters,” added Isadora, with a broad grin. Isadora had heard about families where no one could stand each other, and she had read books of fiction and history that provided numerous examples of siblings that neither supported each other nor had each other’s best interests at heart. The thirteen-year-old poet was very proud to say that with her two brothers it was the complete opposite.

The Quagmire triplets continued down the block until in unison they stopped. 

“So this is it,” said Quigley, even though they could see from the sign that they had arrived at The Firebrand. 

“And that’s The Sugar Bowl. Practically across the street,” said Isadora, glancing across the street, several doors down to the white curtains of The Sugar Bowl. She turned to regard the dirt-stained windows of The Firebrand they stood by, only able to see a few dark, poorly defined shapes through the grime. Between the two establishments, there was no doubting which place Isadora would rather step foot inside. From the shapes of people walking around inside The Sugar Bowl she could make out through the glass door, it was clear to Isadora that she was not the only one who had come to that conclusion. “Do you think maybe the rivalry happened just due to sheer proximity?”

Duncan shook his head. “If it were location alone, then why not a quarrel with Black Cat Coffee? Why not feud with the whole Beverage District while you’re at it?”

“I still maintain that the city did itself a disservice by choosing to lay itself out in such a ridiculous format,” interjected Quigley, nodding at the two soda fountains across the street. “Having all of the shops and restaurants that sell beverages in one place is just bad city planning.” 

Isadora shook her head at the start of a digression she had heard her brother go down many times before. Instead of encouraging the amateur cartographer, Isadora spoke to her other brother. “And you’re sure there’s no other way to find out what happened on April fifth?” She had heard her brother’s description of what he knew so far, and she knew that this conflict between two coffee shops he had never stepped foot in before had become extremely fascinating to him, even if she wasn’t entirely sure why it interested him in the first place. 

Firmly, Duncan nodded his head. “The article said that it all went back to the events of April fifth, but even after searching the microfiche of the Daily Punctilio back at least forty years, I can’t find any reference to anything involving The Sugar Bowl, The Firebrand, the Snickets, or Count Olaf that was published on that date. Or even in the week that followed.”

“Are you sure it didn’t just happen forty-one years ago?” teased Quigley. 

“I went back as far as I could,” said Duncan. “And it wasn’t exactly forty years… closer to forty-five. That’s when the library’s archive of the newspaper began. Before that there was a fire and -”

“Paper burns,” said Isadora. She could see the determination in Duncan’s eyes. She had seen that look on him so many times before, and she knew how it would end. He was going to get to the bottom of this story. 

“Exactly.” Duncan glanced from triplet to triplet. “Quigley, you go to The Sugar Bowl. And-”

“Ask for a job. Keep my eyes sharp for anything.” With Quigley helping, it would be easy for Duncan to have access to both places if need be.

“Right. And Isadora, you-”

“Don’t have to do anything, but I’m coming with you.”

Duncan smiled. “I appreciate the support,” he said. 

There hadn’t exactly been a plan when it had come to what she would be doing while both her brothers applied to work at the coffeeshops in the hopes of being able to discover something about the feud from the inside. But, after peering through the unwashed windows into The Firebrand, Isadora couldn’t ignore the nervous apprehension brewing inside her. Between the rumors that Duncan had told her about the place and the dingy appearance of the cafe, Isadora could hardly feel optimistic about what they would find inside.

“Good luck, Quigley,” Duncan said.

Quigley nodded. “You too. Both of you.” The third triplet stepped to the curb and after a quick glance in both directions darted forward, jaywalking across the street towards The Sugar Bowl.

After ascertaining that their triplet had successfully made it to the rival coffee shop, Duncan faced Isadora. “Ready?”

Hardly. But she wasn’t about to tell Duncan that. Instead, she just nodded. She wasn’t about to let Duncan do this alone. She went over to the door with cracked panes of glass and pushed. The door swung open with a loud creak. “I suppose that’s about as effective as a bell,” mumbled Isadora, wiping whatever stickiness had been on the door off on her uniform skirt. 

Peering in from the outside, Isadora hadn’t been able to get a good sense of just what was in the coffee shop, but now that she was inside, she was finally able to get a proper look at the shop that had inspired her brother’s intrigue. Mismatched wooden chairs stood around several tables that none of them seemed at all appropriate for. Not that it mattered. Not a single patron was on the premise. The only person in the shop besides the two of them that the could see was a tall man standing behind the rough wood counter. 

Though the counter obscured the lower half of his body, the half that the triplets could see was hardly encouraging. A stained apron over a rumpled shirt that had either been slept in or at the bottom of a pile of dirty laundry for a week. Blue eyes underneath a single brow shifted from Duncan to Isadora and back again.

“Good afternoon.” Duncan stepped forward, further into the shop, stirring up what looked like old sawdust up into the air with each step. 

Isadora followed suit, even though she had no particular interest in getting any closer to the server. As she drew nearer, she began to see more, even less appealing details. While she knew that some men preferred to have their facial hair to grow just a little bit out, Isadora was fairly sure that the unshaven face of this man was more due to apathy than a style choice. 

“You two midgets are aware that coffee stunts your growth,” the man said, with an accent that Isadora couldn’t quite place, but thought she had heard once from a television while waiting for the dentist.

“We’re not midgets. We’re teenagers,” said Isadora. She wasn’t sure if the man was joking or if he sincerely thought that this was an acceptable greeting for two potential customers. 

“And there isn’t actually any strong evidence in support of that,” added Duncan. “But we’re not actually here to order coffee.” The two triplets were now at the counter that looked like anyone who touched it would recoil with a splinter or two. 

“Then I believe you’ve come to the wrong place,” the man said. “Unless you want tea.” 

“Actually-” Duncan leaned forward to peer at the barista’s nametag in the dim light of the bare lightbulbs hanging overhead, “-Genghis, we’re here to see Count Olaf. Is he here?”

“He’s an important man. Busy.”

“But is he here?” pressed Duncan.

The tall man glanced over his shoulder towards a hanging sheet that Isadora could only guess was meant to serve as a curtain between the area meant for customers and the part of the coffee shop reserved for employees. “I can see if he’s around, I suppose. Just don’t touch anything.” The man crossed to the curtain in two long strides and pushed back the stained and yellowed sheet.

The ripples hadn’t dissipated from sheet by the time the man returned, throwing the sheet to the side with a flourish, a smug smirk on his face. “Hello, hello, hello,” he said. The accent had completely vanished from the man’s voice, leaving behind something that was close to a wheeze. 

Isadora and Duncan glanced at each other before looking back at the man they now realized was the proprietor of the establishment. 

“It’s customary to clap at the end of a performance,” the man said, returning to the counter, the smile fading from his face. “Did your parents never take you to the theatre?”

Still contending with the surprise from Count Olaf’s initial deception, it took a moment before Isadora brought her hands together for two hesitant claps, Duncan eventually offering a couple of his own as well. “Yes, but never improv,” she said, carefully. She wasn’t about to call what the man had done a performance, but she had been raised better than to be rude to a stranger, even if that stranger didn’t seem to be interested in returning the courtesy. 

“So tell me, children,” Count Olaf said, resting his hands on the counter so he could lean forward, “just what brought two students from Prufrock Prep to my humble business if not for the coffee?”

“For a job,” said Duncan. “Two jobs actually. One for me and one for my sister.”

Count Olaf drew back, amusement creeping onto his features. “You want to work here?”

Duncan shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?”

They man surveyed the triplets. “Why, indeed.” He was silent for a moment, and Isadora wondered if he was about to tell them to look for employment elsewhere, but finally he said, “I suppose we could use the help. Ever since Orlando started rehearsals, this place has gone to the wayside. Not that they were particularly good at their job to begin with.” 

“How long ago did their rehearsals start?” asked Isadora. 

“Couple weeks ago now.”

Whatever Orlando had been doing while at work, the state of The Firebrand was proof that it hadn’t been cleaning or making sure that this was the sort of place than any reasonable person would choose to accept food or drink from. Of that much, Isadora was sure. 

“So, I guess it’s about time you got some help,” said Duncan. “My sister and I are hard workers, and we can give you references if you--”

“You’re going to be taking out the trash, restocking sugar packets, and emptying rat traps. Do you really think I care about your references?” interrupted Count Olaf.

“Rat traps?” said Isadora, her eyes going wide. Aside from a couple of pet rats that she had seen in a store, the thirteen-year-old had never seen a rat. 

“They’re bigger than mouse traps, but same general concept,” explained the man nonchalantly, as if there was nothing remotely concerning about a dining establishment having an infestation of rodents. “It’s better than poison. They don’t go and die off in the walls creating a stench you can never get to.”

There was no doubt that he spoke from experience.

“Have you tried catching them with a cage-trap?” Duncan suggested. “That’s the more humane way--”

“Do I look like the Pied Pepper?”

“Piper,” supplied Isadora without thinking.

“I said Piper.” The man spoke with such conviction that if she had been a less confident person, Isadora was fairly sure she would have doubted her ears. 

“You definitely said Pepper,” disagreed Duncan, which earned him an appreciative nod from his triplet.

Count Olaf scowled. “Do you want the jobs or not?” When neither triplet offered an answer, the owner continued, “If you still want to work, come here tomorrow after school.” He gave the two a quick and critical scan. “And wear something other than your uniforms.”

Even if it meant the inconvenience of having to bring a change of clothes along with her to school, Isadora supposed that it was a reasonable request. “Done,” said Isadora.

“Well, if that’s all,” Count Olaf said, “I suppose I will see you tomorrow.” The skepticism practically dripped off of his words. 

If it were up to Isadora, that would have been the last time that she would ever step foot in that cafe, but even before they had exited the dingy coffeeshop, Isadora could see the investigative intent burning in Duncan’s eyes. Out in the daylight, Isadora suinted, looking over in the direction of The Sugar Bowl, wondering just how Quigley was getting on. 

“Can you believe it?” said Duncan.

“I can’t believe that place is legally allowed to serve anything,” Isadora murmured. Even if they were on the street, walking down the block and well out of earshot of the man who insisted on wearing someone else’s name tag, Isadora couldn’t help but feel his lingering presence beside the two of them.

“I know!” He pulled out his notebook from his pocket. “There’s something that has to be going on there as well. Maybe he’s got someone he bribes in the Health Inspector’s office? It didn’t look like he could be making enough money to bribe someone, though, which means that...” 

Isadora began to tune out her brother’s overly excited speculation as to just what malfeasance was going on at The Firebrand. She was sure that she would be hearing enough about it in the days and weeks to come. However long it took for Duncan to get to the bottom of this all. Or however long it took for The Firebrand to be shut down by the city health department. 

Across the street, the door to The Sugar Bowl opened and out came Quigley. Even with the distance between them, Isadora could see that her brother was smiling. 

“Hey! I’ve got something to show you!” he shouted to them.  
Quigley didn’t need to say any more to convince his siblings to join him across the street.

“What did you find?” asked Duncan at the same moment that Isadora asked, “Did you get the job?”

“Yes,” said Quigley, turning to face his sister before his brother. “The owner, Jacques, says they’re always looking for some more help, and then when he found out I’m interested in cartography, he showed me this atlas of deep sea that he just bought for a friend. Pretty fascinating. Wish I had more time to study it.”

“So is that what you want to show us?” asked Duncan. Though the triplets all supported and encouraged each other when it came to their individual passions and hobbies, that didn’t mean that they all necessarily found themselves as equally captivated by the subjects their siblings loved. 

Quigley shook his head. “No. Technically, it’s a who. Not a what. She’s a who.” He motioned for Isadora and Duncan to follow him into The Sugar Bowl. 

As Isadora stepped inside the other cafe, she realized that she didn’t even need her eyes to tell her that she was in a very different different sort of shop from The Firebrand. Unlike the other where the acrid smell of something burnt had hung in the air, here she found herself enjoying the rich scent of coffee interspersed with smells that she knew could only come from freshly baked goods and old books. 

“You get to work here?” whispered Isadora, wondering if she ought to regret her choice to stick with Quigley. If she was going to have to work, there was no question in her mind that this would be the much preferable location. 

“Yeah, but…” He stepped further into the cafe and gave a nod at the two people at the counter. “Take a look a the barista.”

It took Isadora a moment to realize which barista her brother was talking about, smiling as she recognized the woman who was struggling with the cash register. Isadora had never seen Miss Caliban outside of Prufrock Prep, and even then, she had really only ever seen her inside the library, so the surprise of seeing her here had given Isadora pause. But there was no denying that the woman with the thick horned rimmed glasses and tight bun was their school’s former librarian.

“Miss Caliban!” exclaimed Isadora, hurrying over to the counter, Duncan following close on her heels. 

The woman looked up and smiled warmly. “Hello Quagmires,” she said. “It’s so good to see you three.” Of all the adults at Prufrock Prep, the librarian had been the only one who had consistently been able to tell the difference between Quigley and Duncan. 

Before any of the triplets could speak, the door opened, setting the bells that hung above it jingling. Isadora turned around to see a dark haired girl pushing a bike into the shop, a triumphant grin lighting up her face.

“I fixed your bike, Larry,” the girl said, wheeling the bike up the slight incline from the door to the counter. 

The grey haired barista came out from behind the counter to inspect the girl’s handiwork. “It looks better than ever, Violet,” the man said. “You wouldn’t ever guess it had had a run in with a trolley.”

“I even added a couple improvements,” the girl, Violet, went on. “I designed you a lock for your seat so that no one steals it again, and see this-” she flicked a switch on the handlebar and the kickstand sprung out “- I was just having fun with this one.” She was beaming with excitement as she spoke. 

Inspiration. Isadora could certainly recognize that as she looked at the girl. Inspiration and passion. It was hard to ignore the energy coming from her. 

At least, it was for Isadora.

As she glanced back at her brothers, she found Duncan and Quigley quite engrossed in a conversation with Miss Caliban. Isadora tried to focus, knowing that eavesdropping was impolite, and also wanting to hear just what Miss Caliban had been doing since she had been let go. But her gaze kept on drifting back to _her_. When the male barista finally suggested that they take the bike to the back of the shop, Isadora practically let out a sigh of relief. At last, she didn’t have to pretend to be distracted by the pretty inventor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, I'm so happy you came back for more. (Seconds? Can I call it that since it's a coffee shop AU?) And you clearly survived your first proper look at Barista Olaf in his shop. (Though you did get a glimpse of him in the first chapter.)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into what a good portion of the fic will wind up looking like! (Aka a balance between what's going on on two opposite sides of the street and the people who work there.) I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. One of the great things about this AU is that I get to imagine what the Quagmires and Baudelaires would be like if they had been allowed normal childhoods. Hell, I'm imagining what everyone would be like if they had been allowed to be kids and hadn't been recruited into VFD. Of course, a lot is still the same, but I like taking liberties. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	3. Biblichor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sugar Bowl proves to have a few surprises for Olivia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting, but this chapter sort of took on a life of its own and demanded doubling the amount of time I had planned to spend on it... and the word count (almost).   
> Hope you enjoy!

It had been many years since Olivia Caliban had been a stranger to early morning hours. Working as a school librarian meant that she had had no choice but to be a very early riser. It had been a bit of a shock to the system at first after so many years of college and graduate school, but she had adjusted. Now that she found herself needing to wake up an hour and a half earlier to serve coffee and breakfast to the early risers, Olivia was swimming the groggy daze of being up, but not truly being awake. 

Getting dressed had been a completely mechanical act. She hadn’t even realized until after she almost finished with breakfast that perhaps she didn’t need to wear heels, a skirt, blouse, and cardigan to work at a coffee shop, but at that point, she knew that it was too late to try to find a pair of jeans or something more casual. Besides, Jacques had said they could use a librarian, and this was what the librarian preferred to work in. 

Olivia quickly finished the rest of her breakfast and cup of coffee after checking the time. Though she had never come across a book that specifically discussed etiquette for the first full day of work at a coffee shop, she was fairly sure that arriving with coffee would count as a faux pas. So, she quickly downed her coffee, then headed to the bathroom. A couple minutes later, she was closing the front door and clacking off to the trolley stop. 

The liminal light of the sky just before dawn still hadn’t brightened by the time Olivia was crossing the street to The Sugar Bowl. She slipped into the long and narrow alley beside the coffee shop to the back door that Jacques had showed her and instructed her to use the day before. As she turned the knob of the door, she found it to be unlocked, just as Jacques said it would be. 

Pushing the door further and stepping over the threshold, Olivia crossed into the backmost room of The Sugar Bowl. Bags of coffee beans, flour, sugar, and other dry ingredients sat on shelves, filling the room with a thick fragrance. Olivia walked through the storeroom quickly to where the office she had been interviewed in faced a row of mounted wall coat hooks. Only one of the hooks was occupied with a light, brown jacket. Olivia glanced over her shoulder to the shut office door before hanging up her purse and heading further down the corridor towards the warm sweet scent of something baking.

As she entered the brightly lit kitchen, Olivia looked around. A woman stood in front of a large oven, adjusting the dials. At Olivia’s footsteps, the woman looked up, giving her a smile.

“You must be Olivia,” the woman said. She wiped her hands on her pale blue apron, leaving a white streaks of handprints. 

Olivia nodded. “I am.” She returned the smile. 

“Jacques told me about our new librarian.” The dark haired woman weaved her way through the benches and equipment to offer her hand to Olivia. “I’m Beatrice.” 

“The other owner,” Olivia remembered out-loud. She took Beatrice’s hand. Up close, Olivia could see that the apron was not entirely blue, but instead made up of tiny powder blue circles. 

Beatrice nodded, a lock of deep brown hair escaping from a low ponytail. “I’m usually in before Jacques since I have to get a head start on the house pastries,” she explained. 

Eyebrows raising in surprise, Olivia asked, “You bake them all yourself?” While the assortment of baked goods that was offered at The Sugar Bowl was hardly extensive, it seemed like quite a lot to be made by just one woman. 

With a small laugh, Beatrice said, “Of course not. We have a partnership with Mrs. Miniver, and she sends some goods over from her bakery every day. She’s got a full staff. I do get student apprentices from the vocational school, but I don’t expect them to come in this early. And on some days, I’m joined my my sous chef.” Beatrice stepped back and gestured to what Olivia realized was a playpen and not, as she had originally assumed, an open storage box. Beatrice walked over to the playpen. 

Olivia followed and as she drew closer, she could make out the form of a sleeping baby through the netting. 

“My daughter, Sunny,” said Beatrice, her voice instinctively dropping low as the two women leaned over the cot. “We’re between day care centers right now, since we’ve got a little fond of biting to show affection.” The mother reached down to give the baby a gentle stroke on the back. “And she really does enjoy being here in the kitchen, so--”

“There you are!”

Both women straightened up and looked towards the cheery voice of Larry.

“I was beginning to worry you had gotten lost,” Larry said, stepping into the kitchen from the shop. 

“I was just getting to know Beatrice and Sunny.” Olivia turned towards Beatrice once again and said, “It was really nice meeting you.”

With a grin, Beatrice said, “You too. Go, help Larry open up.”

As Olivia walked to the barista, she saw from the periphery of her vision Beatrice beginning to measure out flour. “Sorry I didn’t come immediately to find you,” she said, wondering if she had already let her co-worker down on the first day. “I know I should have but-”

Larry shook his head and started back to the shop. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Olivia. Beatrice told me that she wanted to meet you when you came in.” He pushed the curtain back, and the two of them entered the coffee shop. “Besides, I’m used to opening up by myself. We’ve been short staffed for a while. And no one ever seems to want to volunteer for dismally early shifts.” 

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I just want to be wherever I’m useful. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to get the hours. My landlord would not be happy if I were late with the rent.” When she had asked for an extension after her hours had been cut a second time just a month ago, the man had almost choked on his cigar and gone on a tirade against libraries, education, and lazy people. It had been so hard for her to just stand there, mouth shut, waiting for the man to grow winded and ask his partner for a glass of water. Olivia had promised to make it work, all the while internally seething, wanting to shout at him, at Vice Principal Nero, at everyone. 

Offering her a small smile, Larry said, “My old landlord was like that. I moved in with a couple friends. If you ever want to swap war stories, let me know.”

Olivia returned the smile, glad that her co-worker seemed to be genuinely empathetic and caring. That was certainly a first. At Prufrock, the teachers had largely been disinterested in engaging with her. Here, though, she felt like she had already made a friend. “I will.”

Larry nodded and then glanced towards the front door of the shop. “What do you say? Time to open up?”

The day had to start somehow. She gave Larry a small nod of affirmation and watched as Larry the barista flipped the ‘closed’ sign around and unlocked the door.

***

For some time, the stream of patrons was fairly constant. Larry had told her that for the first few hours of opening, the majority of people had no choice but to come in, get their coffee, and go off to work, something Olivia knew well enough from the years she had been stopping by The Sugar Bowl before completing her commute to Prufrock. But, she did note that slowly, the tables, booths, and comfy chairs around the coffee shop began to be occupied by those who seemed intent on staying for some time as they became absorbed in books, notepads, and newspapers.

The time that Olivia used to come in came and passed her by, unnoticed until she glanced up at the clock on the brick wall. “Until yesterday, I had never been here so late,” Olivia remarked as she rinsed out a French press in the sink against the wall. She could see her reflection in the shiny metal side of the espresso machine. In the rush of the morning, a lock of her hair had slipped out of her bun. Olivia tucked it back behind her ear, and returned to the angled U-shaped counter with the clean press. 

Larry looked over to check the time himself. “Jacques should be in soon,” he remarked before continuing to ring up the guest who had ordered a dozen pastries for his department’s meeting. “Good luck with the presentation today, Mr. Greer,” Larry said, handing the man the white pastry box with a smile. As the patron headed to the door, Larry resumed talking to Olivia. “That means that the mid-morning lull should be coming, and Jacques will be able to talk to you about your librarian duties.” 

“I’m looking forward to it,” Olivia said honestly. “Not that I don’t enjoy brewing coffee and serving pastries, but-”

To show that he wasn’t offended, Larry held up his hands. “It’s not your yen.”

“Exactly.” She hadn’t spent her childhood dreaming of grinding up coffee beans or gone to college and then two years of graduate school to bus tables in a cafe, no matter how pleasant and inviting a place it was. 

When the time between customers had stretched to four minutes, Olivia asked if they were allowed to have their own coffee.

“Of course we are,” said Larry.

“And we don’t have to pay?” 

“We consider it a common courtesy to provide our employees with free coffee and tea,” came a voice from behind her.

Olivia faced the man who had hired her. “Good morning,” she said, as Larry offered his own similar greeting. 

“It’s good to see you, Olivia,” the dark haired man said. He stepped further into the shop. “Larry, how have things been with our librarian?” Olivia could see that though he spoke to Larry, his eyes were still fixed on her. 

“Admirably well,” Larry said. “Remembered how to work the espresso machine. Had no issues with the crowd, and even has a flair for foam. I am happy to have her assisting me with the breakfast crowd.” 

As he took a mug from the shelf underneath the leftmost side of the counter, Jacques said, “Larry’s esteem counts for a lot here.” He took a drip over cone and place a filter paper in it. “So you must be a force to be reckoned with.” He scoped a serving of grounds out from the container of grounds that Olivia had made fresh only a half hour before and then poured the water. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Olivia, glancing down at her shoes, noting a large brown splotch on the left toe that had not been there before work this morning. “But I did work at a cafe before, and what I didn’t pick up then… Larry’s a good teacher. And I’m a fast learner.” The machines and devices that Larry had showed her had seemed straightforward enough to her, even if they were quite complex. 

“No need to be modest,” Jacques said. “If you’re able to work the espresso machine without having to be shown several times, you’re doing a lot better than me. When we replaced the old one, Violet-” he paused and then explained, “Beatrice’s eldest, had to show me a couple of times how it all worked before it clicked.”

“Violet… she was the one who fixed your bike,” remembered Olivia, looking over to Larry. 

Larry nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but as the door opened with a tingle of the bell and all three turned to see a very tall man with dark sunglasses enter. 

“Dewey,” said Jacques. He walked from the percolating cup of coffee, to join Olivia and Larry standing by the register. 

The tall man, Dewey, gave Jacques a broad, toothy grin and removed his sunglasses. “Fancy seeing you here, Jacques.” He was at the counter in a few long steps. “Hello, Larry, the usual for me and Hal.” There was something about the man that struck a chord of recognition in Olivia, though she couldn’t place just what it was. 

“Good morning,” said the barista, “and of course.” Larry took two paper cups from the stack. He handed one to Olivia. “The Dark Assam blend,” he said, pointing to a chocolate brown tin on the shelf, before heading off to set a cup of coffee percolating beside the one Jacques had started. 

Unable to continue to try to place the man, Olivia went over to the shelves mounted to the wall above the sink and espresso machine and reached up to retrieve a bag of the tea that Larry had indicated. When she re-joined the men at the counter, bearing a cup of steaming tea, the topic had drifted to more personal matters.

Dewey was saying, “Kit wanted me to remind that it’s 6:45, so be sure to arrive--”

“I know. I know,” Jacques said. “Same deal. Different time.” 

A quick peek over at Larry and Olivia could see that her co-worker wasn’t yet finished with the coffee. She tugged a cardboard carrier off of the pile and pushed the cup into a slot.

“Dewey, I actually wanted to introduce you to Olivia.”

Nonplussed, Olivia looked up from her task to once again look at the familiar man.

“Olivia is going to be our librarian and finally tackle our collection,” Jacques went on. “And Olivia, Dewey is my…” He tilted his head, giving his next words more consideration than he seemed to have done before, “Dewey’s an old friend, and he’s lent a hand or two from time to time with the books.”

Dewey gave Olivia an impressed look. “You’ve got quite the task ahead of you.”

Olivia glanced in the direction of the seven book shelves, even though from this angle, it was impossible to see around the bend of the cafe to the miniature library. “I think that it’s well within what I can manage,” she said confidently. Even if the Prufrock Preparatory library’s collection had dwindled over the years she had worked there, it was still larger than the handful of bookshelves. 

“Have you see the upstairs?” asked Dewey, picking up the tray.

“Upstairs?” She faced Jacques. “There’s an upstairs?”

Unphased by his friend’s revelation or employee’s surprise, Jacques simply said, “I was saving that for today. You’ll see today why it’s not exactly something that a lot of people know about… It’s really just not ready for the public. Hopefully you’ll change that.” 

Even if a part of her knew that she should be a little bit annoyed at her boss for not being forthright about the exact duties of the job she was accepting - not that she had asked many questions to find out, as necessity had tied her hand to accept the adage “beggars can’t be choosers” - the overwhelming majority of Olivia felt a thrill course through her. Whatever it was that awaited her upstairs, it was sure to be a challenge of the sort she hadn’t faced in years, and that prospect exhilarated more than any cup of tea or coffee ever had. 

Interrupting Olivia’s thoughts, Dewey said, “I best be off. Hal will wonder if I abandoned him.” He held up a hand in farewell. “See you this evening, Jacques. Bye, Larry. It was a pleasure meeting you, Olivia. Good luck whipping this library into shape.” He started towards the door, but only made it two strides before he stopped and spun around. “Oh, and I forgot to mention,” Dewey said to Jacques, “Lemony said he’d come tonight.”

For half a heartbeat, Jacques’s eyes widened. “Is that so? The prodigal brother returns.” 

Dewey shrugged his shoulders. “Kit doesn’t think he’ll actually show up, but we’ll set a place for him and see what happens.”

“I guess we will,” Jacques agreed, a slightly sanguine lilt creeping into his voice. “He might surprise all of us.” 

The gangly man masked a doubtful sigh by slipping his sunglasses back on. “Maybe,” he said, before opening the door to slip out onto the city street again. 

The twinkle of the bell had barely faded by the time that Jacques returned to the mug on the counter. He picked the drip over cone off of it and handed the mug to Olivia with a smile. “Here’s your coffee.”

Reflexively, her hands wrapped around the hot cup of black coffee. “Oh!” Olivia looked down at it. “You needn’t have made me coffee. I could have done it myself.” She certainly knew how to. She had brewed dozens over the past few hours alone.

“It was no trouble, but I didn’t know how you took it so—“

Larry leaned in to whisper something to Jacques that immediately cut the owner off. His mustache twitched and then he nodded.

“Evidently, your preferred drink is a soy latte with caramel,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think that you would like something so sweet. I can make-”

“No,” Olivia said, holding out her hand to stop him from turning back to make another drink. “Black coffee is great too. Actually at the moment, it’s what I really want. After having to make about ten lattes, I don’t really want to look at another.” The real trouble with any kind of latte was just how many things needed to be cleaned after making it, and Olivia knew that the task of cleaning everything would likely fall to her. She brought the mug up to her lips and took a sip. “Aromatic and delicious.”

“And low acidity,” said Jacques. “It took quite a while to find the perfect house blend after…” He stopped and then gave what Olivia could guess was a forced smile. “How about I show you the upstairs and where the bulk of your librarian duties will be after the morning rush is over.” He motioned her to follow him.

Olivia took another drink of her coffee before starting off after her new boss, bringing the mug along with her. As they walked past a few tables and comfy armchairs with patrons at them, they reached the seven book shelves that almost reached up to the ceiling. “So this isn’t it?” said Olivia. The book shelves didn’t extend particularly far, going almost all the way up to the brick wall. 

“Just what is publicly displayed for the moment.” He glanced over his shoulder to meet Olivia’s eyes for a second. “We’ve tried to organize them a bit here, but since most of the time, we’ve relied on people putting the books back where they belong, and usually the books go back to where they were before, but as I’m not a librarian, I’m not entirely sure that Beatrice and I have done the cataloging right. We haven’t even attempted to do the books upstairs.” As the came to the brick wall, Jacques halted. 

The space between the wall of The Sugar Bowl and the ends of the book shelves was barely more than five feet. As she looked down to take another sip of her coffee, she found that she could keep both the wall and bookshelves in sight.

“How much do you know about the history of the Beverage District?” asked Jacques.

“I…” As a very well-read person, it was always jarring to realize there were lacunae in her knowledge. “I must confess, I know hardly anything, other than that it wasn’t always the Beverage District.” 

“It was once a part of the Dining District,” Jacques said. “It became the Beverage District during Prohibition. Many speakeasies operated on this street: above, below, and behind the restaurants that seemed to obey the law, hidden in plain sight with a few feats of illusion and distraction. The Sugar Bowl was home to one such club.” The man reached out towards the wall and removed from the mortar a brick with such ease that Olivia knew it never could have been affixed in the wall. As Jacques pulled the brick away, he exposed a brass doorknob in the wall’s own lacuna. 

Seeing the wonder in Olivia’s eyes, the corner of Jacques’ lip rose. “Contrary to popular belief, it’s not just another brick in the wall.” With a forceful shove against the bricks, Jacques turned the knob. Cracks in the mortar that Olivia had not noticed before deepened until the door swung away.

Olivia stared into the blackness, thunderstruck. She had read so many novels that featured secret passageways and hidden compartments that were concealed in such a way - hidden in a bookcase requiring the tilting of some tome or the correct chord on a piano to be revealed. Those adventure books had made her spend visits to her grandparents’ old Victorian home seeking such secrets. She had found nothing then but cobwebs, dust bunnies, and a collection of marbles. 

The smile on Jacques face had widened. “Come with me,” he said, stepping into the shadowy room.

Even before her eyes had adjusted properly, Olivia could feel that the space that she and Jacques had just entered was far too small to be a former speakeasy. The air was musty and heavy. With the help of the band of light streaming in from the shop, Olivia was able to make out the spiral of a staircase. “ _I summon to the winding ancient stair; Set all your mind upon the steep ascent, Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,  
Upon the breathless starlit air, 'Upon the star that marks the hidden pole--_”

“ _Who can distinguish darkness from the soul,_ ” recited Jacques, joining in in.

Amusement creeping into her voice, Olivia said, “You skipped a few lines.”

“Mr. Yeats will forgive me, I’m sure,” Jacques said. With a metallic thump, he got onto the first step. 

As the sounds of Jacques ascent began to grow more distant, Olivia approached the stair. Climbing a rickety staircase in dim light hardly was a wise move, she knew, but excitement drove her forward.

Her first footstep onto the black stair reverberated against the brick walls. The cast iron rail was cool and gritty against her palm as she guided herself up the twisted, turning staircase. The sound of each footfall against the metal steps brought her back to the warm summer tours of the Lavender Lighthouse during childhood vacations on Lake Lachrymose. Fortunately for the woman in heels, the climb was much shorter.

“When my grandfather died, he left my siblings and me a rather odd assortment of things,” Jacques explained once they reached the landing. “Besides this entire building that he had been renting out, he bequeathed the three of us his rather extensive collection of books.” He fumbled around in the dark before finding the cord of an overhead light. With a tug he illuminated the entire landing, revealing a wall with a single door. “Since he left the house to our cousins, my siblings and I had to find a place for our library. Rather than renovating the upstairs and renting it out, all three of us decided to preserve some history.” 

Olivia had been so interested in Jacques’ tale that she didn’t realize until she was nearly eye to eye with the door. Stopping, Olivia regarded the faded eye painted on the door, a few inches above a slot covered slot just wide enough to allow someone to peer through it without exposing the interior. She didn’t have long to look before Jacques opened the door. 

The stagnant air lightened, and Olivia breathed in a familiar scent. Entering the room, Olivia welcomed the sweet biblichor to embrace her like an old friend. As the lights came on, she took in the walls lined with books, notebooks, and stacks of pages and gazed at the rows and rows of books that occupied the center of the room. “Your grandfather collected all of this?” she murmured. It was hardly the largest library that she had ever seen, but those others had not been a personal collection.

“He had some help, and he inherited some of it from relatives, but yes, this all belonged to him,” Jacques said. He folded his arms and walked over to Olivia. “So, does this seem like a project you’d want to tackle? If you’d rather spend your shifts helping out Larry and the other baristas, I understand.”

Without any hesitation, Olivia said, “Yes. Of course.” Tearing her focus away from the books, she beamed at Jacques. “I don’t think I’ve been this excited for work since… my first year at Prufrock.” 

Mirroring Olivia’s expression, Jacques softly said, “I’m glad.” He stood there silently, looking intently at Olivia for just long enough for Olivia to feel the intensity of his gaze. Finally, he broke the silence with, “How about I show you the work that Dewey did and you can get started?” Before Olivia could answer, he was already heading towards the back where she could see an old secretary desk.

Trying not to let her exhilaration get the better of her, Olivia took a calming breath before hurrying after Jacques.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, whether it be in the form of a comment or kudos!
> 
> Over the next two chapters, all of the major players should be introduced as well as the ships they have. I hope you continue to bear with me through the next couple chapters of setting the stage and the plot begins.
> 
> And speaking of plot, I've been wondering if anyone would be particularly averse to be raising the rating up to M because of the adults? Let me know if you've got a strong opinion. This fic is a very hard T or a very soft M, so I don't know what to rate it to be honest. 
> 
> Okay, well thank you again, especially since you just made it through my ramble. ^_^


	4. Everything In The Kitchen Sink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, an update in a timely fashion? Must be a solstice miracle.

The jeans weren’t even hers. After a quick assessment of her closet the night before, Isadora had realized that her wardrobe was woefully lacking in clothes that looked like they would suit or even could survive an afternoon working amongst the dirt and grime that was The Firebrand. Duncan had readily supplied her with a pair of his jeans, and Isadora had decided that the oversized Lachrymose Leech tee-shirt she had gotten as a joke last summer could be sacrificed for the sake of Duncan’s project.

Quigley had looked much more excited than Isadora knew she had looked when they had parted ways to head to work. With each step closer to The Firebrand, Isadora could feel her muscles tensen more, bracing for whatever was in store for her and Duncan on their first day of work. She wondered if it was normal to feel such apprehension before going into work on a first day anywhere or whether the anxious quickening of her heart was exclusive to approaching The Firebrand. 

At least she had Duncan to enter the dismal cafe with.

“You’re late,” came an accented voice from a darkened corner. There was sound of a chair being scraped across the floor, and then their new boss emerged from the shadows, tucking something into his apron pocket.

“You never told us what time to come,” said Duncan defensively. He glanced over at Isadora as if to confirm, and when she offered him a nod, he continued, “We can’t be late if you didn’t give us a time to be here by.”

Using the same accent that he had the other day, Count Olaf continued, “The Prufrock Prep dismissal bell is at 2:05. The trolley ride takes 35 minutes. It’s five past three. You’re late.” 

Confused, Isadora frowned, wondering how and why this man would know exactly what time school let out. “We had to change, like you told us to do,” said Isadora. “That meant that we missed the trolley and had to wait for the next one.” 

The man gave the triplets an evaluative glance. “You should have changed faster.” He took a few steps closer to the twins. “I’ve done more complicated costume changes in less than a minute. Five minutes is more than enough time to get out of those uniforms and walk to the trolley stop. It’s less than a five minute walk from the academic building. Don’t miss the 2:15 trolley next time.”

The way he spoke to them, Isadora was tempted to tell him there wouldn’t be a next time and storm out, but she held her tongue. 

Ever the journalist, Duncan seemed to have other matters on his mind. “Did you go to Prufrock?” Duncan asked. 

Count Olaf blinked. “What?” He seemed to be just as surprised Isadora was by Duncan’s question.

“Just, you seem to know an awful lot about Prufrock. Stuff that only students would know like the time it takes to get to the trolley stop from class,” Duncan explained. “So, it would follow that you went there.” 

A grin quirked on Isadora’s face. She couldn’t believe that she hadn’t put it together, but her brother was right. 

“I don’t see why my educational past is any of your concern,” sneered Count Olaf. 

Duncan shrugged his shoulders. “Only curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“And satisfaction brought it back,” Isadora said finishing the adage. 

With an exhausted huff, the man fixed the two with a cold stare. “No, last I checked, the cat is dead and buried, but there are still posters the owners put up thinking puss will come home,” he said, his voice low. 

As if a cold wind had blown through the shop, Isadora shuddered.

“Now you have wasted enough of my time,” Count Olaf continued. “So let’s begin your training.” And like a switch had been flicked, a genial smile bloomed on the man’s unshaven face. From the glint in his eyes, though, it seemed impossible for the expression to be anything but a mask. “Shall we begin your grand tour?”

The triplets knew that it wasn’t really a question, but still they both nodded.

Count Olaf spread his hands out and gestured around the empty cafe. “This is the shop.” He walked to the counter, the Quagmires following behind him. “It’s where we serve the stuff that is brewed. Coffee. Tea. Various foamy drinks. What you would expect.” He led them behind the counter, onto a mat caked and stained with sawdust and coffee. “Cash register. Not for you to touch.” He gestured to the space below the counter to where several mugs and plates were stored. “Some fine china for those who decide they want to dine in.” 

Duncan bent down to pick up one of the greyed and chipped ceramic mugs. As he pulled it away, dust and strands of cobwebs came up.

“People very rarely want to dine in,” said Count Olaf, as if that excused the state. “That’s why we are fully stocked with paper and styrofoam cups.” 

Duncan set the mug down on the rough wood counter and brushed the dust off onto his shirt.

“We’ve got the coffee maker, filters, beans, coffee grinder, pots…” He glanced around at the numerous instruments on the shelf against the wall. “Filters, decaf pot that no one ever orders from.” He grabbed the orange handled pot and turned it upside down over the sink. Rather than spill out, the coffee - or rather the sludge - oozed out. Too impatient to wait for the molasses-like mess to dribble into the sink, Count Olaf set the pot down. “We leave anything that’s dirty in the sink.”

Both triplets craned their necks to see into the stained and crowded sink. Mugs with crusts and discolored pots waited amongst the detris of so many cups of coffee and mugs of tea. Isadora wrinkled her nose reflexively. 

“I will show you the back now.” Count Olaf strode to the dingy sheet acting as a curtain and pulled it back. Leaning forward, he called out, “Ladies. You’re needed.” 

Isadora heard the sound of footsteps, and then two short women emerged from the back. The women both had identical hunches and both wore thick cat eyed glasses. For a triplet, identical twins wearing matching glasses and very similar clothing was hardly remarkable. What made Isadora almost stare at the women - before she realized what she was doing and then pretended to be fascinated with the display of tea boxes and tins - was the white makeup on their face. Isadora had seen pictures of geishas and paintings of women from the 18th century with a similar cosmetic aesthetic, but never before had she seen it on a real person, much less two. 

“Twins, meet twins,” Count Olaf said.

The women stuck out their hands at the same time. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” said the one on the right as the one on the left nodded.

“We’re actually not--” started Isadora, but as Duncan gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow, she fell silent. 

“Not what, dear?” asked the one on the left.

“Not going to shake our hands?” the one on the right said. 

“That’s rude,” concluded the left one.

“No, um…” Isadora reached out to shake the closest woman’s hand. “I misspoke. Sorry. It’s very nice to meet you both.” She then shook the next woman’s hand, Duncan quickly following suit and offering his own greeting.

Count Olaf cleared his throat, “Old twins, I’m going to need you to watch the front while I show the new twins around.”

The glances exchanged between the four employees conveyed a distinctly unanimous opinion that absolutely no one needed to watch the cafe.

“Doug and Isabelle-”

“Duncan and Isadora,” Isadora corrected her boss sharply.

The man froze and did a double take. “Seriously? Your parents named you after the dancer?”

“Your parents named you ‘Count,’” retorted Isadora. 

Not at all phased, Count Olaf said smoothly, “Nobody questioned Duke Ellington’s parents when they named him Duke. Or Earl Grey’s-”

“I don’t think Earl Grey was his actual name,” interjected Duncan. “And I don’t think he had anything to do with the tea.”

The man stood silently, considering. His pause made Isadora’s stomach begin to twist into a nervous knot, but finally Count Olaf said, “I no interest in or use for history. It’s caused enough trouble already, and I’m not paying you to discuss it. You’re here to clean. Now, let me show you the rest of The Firebrand.” His voice was soft, still in the flat, nasal accent that he had been using the day before. “Any objections.” His voice didn’t rise at the end, as it was not really a question.

“Lead the way,” said Duncan calmly.

Count Olaf lifted up the stained sheet, revealing a very narrow corridor with dark wood panels. A door stood just ajar enough for Isadora to see a cramped bathroom with a yellowed porcelain bowl and the green tank mounted high up on the wall with a chain dangling down. As her brother and her were ushered into the cramped hallway past the smelly “curtain”, she saw that there was another door. 

“What’s in there?” asked Isadora.

Wordlessly, Count Olaf turned around and leaned forward to reach for the glass doorknob, and Isadora found herself holding her breath to prevent the stench of stale cigarettes radiating from her boss from overpowering her. The moment was brief, luckily. As Count Olaf drew back, Isadora could see the shadowy outline of a broom, a mop, a few buckets, a sink, and several cleaning products. Without the light in the closet on, she couldn’t be sure, but she was fairly confident that several items had spiderwebs and dust attached to them. 

“You’ll find a lot of your supplies there,” Count Olaf said, boredly. He shut the door with a click. 

The trio proceeded down the hallway, and with each step, the air seemed to grow hotter and stickier. 

“This is the kitchen,” Count Olaf went on as they emerged into a steamy room. “It’s Friday, so the ladies are boiling the bagels they made yesterday and baking them.” He gestured around, though it was hard to see just what he was trying to indicate in the mist. “Once they’re done, you’ll clean the pots and tools, and whatever else those two tell you to clean.” 

Isadora took a couple of hesitant steps forward. Squinting, she could make out the shape of an oven with a large vat on top of it. Several trays were on the counter, and even more had been piled up in the sink. Another couple of steps, and Isadora was able to make out the shape of sweaty, anemic bagels waiting to be boiled and baked sitting in trays on the countertop. With disgust, she took in the rest of the counter space in the kitchen that was occupied by at least a week’s worth of dirty mixing bowls, measuring cups, baking sheets, coffee cups, plates, and more, all stacked up so so precariously that Isadora wondered if her breath would send the whole messy pyramid crashing down to the floor. Or else one of the numerous flies that were buzzing around the sink would upset the whole balance. 

“That’s a lot of bagels,” said Duncan, only a couple steps behind Isadora. “Do you really sell that many in a day?” The incredulity in Duncan’s voice was painfully obvious, but as they had never seen a customer here, it was impossible to avoid.

Count Olaf let out a sound that was halfway between a snort and scoff. “Of course not. People don’t come to The Firebrand for the bagels. They come for the coffee. No, we make batches of whatever type we’re running low on and then freeze them. Every night we leave a couple to defrost, and then the next morning you’ve got them ready for the four or five people who decide to order one. We do the same with the muffins. A batch of onion bagels can last us almost two weeks.”

Isadora frowned. “They can’t be particularly good.” 

“No one comes here for the baked goods,” repeated Count Olaf. He motioned them to follow him further, and the steam began to clear, allowing the triplets to see a grey door. Rust trailed from each nail and facet, and something dark had been splattered across the front. Years of greasy handprints seemed to be smeared across the handle. “This is the refrigerator. You go in it to get to the freezer.”

“Where you keep the bagels and muffins,” said Duncan, as if he was still having trouble accepting the fact that everything baked fresh here wound up frozen. 

“Oh, and scones,” remembered Count Olaf. “The twins made some scones a few weeks ago and we still haven’t sold all of them… we’ll have to defrost some for tomorrow.”

Duncan and Isadora exchanged looks of disgust at the thought of eating a weeks old scone. 

The tour, unfortunately, continued as Count Olaf showed them a store room further down the hall. It was so packed with fragrant bags of coffee, boxes of tea, and the materials that were needed to make and serve them that the three of them had had to stand nearly shoulder to shoulder. As Count Olaf had gone on about his wares that people actually came for, Isadora had been aching to escape the cramped claustrophobic space. As soon as Count Olaf opened the door to the alleyway from the corridor Isadora wished that she were back in the aromatic cupboard. 

Instinctively, Isadora held her nose. “What the-- what is that smell?” she asked, her stomach turning. She didn’t need to look too hard to find the source - a grimy and overflowing dumpster.

“Spoilt milk,” said Count Olaf lightly. “I would recommend holding your breath while you take the trash out, especially as the weather begins to warm up.” He stepped back inside the shop, and the triplets were all too eager to join him and shut the door behind them with a loud bang. 

As the three of them went deeper into the back of The Firebrand, Count Olaf kicked along a cracked and stained ant trap, as if it were a stone and he were a young boy walking home from school. He even put his hands in his pockets as he spoke, “When you come in after school, business will be slow, but tomorrow morning when you come in, you will see what it’s really like here.”

With the safety of Count Olaf’s back to the two of them, Isadora and Duncan looked at each other.

_‘Tomorrow?’_ mouthed Isadora.

_‘Sorry,’_ said Duncan. 

_‘You owe me a Saturday morning.’_

_‘I know.’_

Only Isadora didn’t catch what her brother was mouthing. Instead, she had stopped, staring at the wall past her brother. There had been many doors off of the hallway that ran the length of the coffee shop, and all of them bore scars and peeling paint that any old and not well kept building would have. This door, however, seemed to have been attacked. Splinters of unpolished wood stuck out from long, scraped out channels, as if a monster had dragged its claws down the top panel. 

Duncan stopped beside her. 

Before she could ask Duncan just what he thought had happened, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Isadora jumped and turned around to see Count Olaf glowering down at the two of them, his eyes shining even in the shadows of the hallway. “I think,” he said in a dangerously low voice that was almost like a rumble of thunder, “that it’s time you began your duties as employees.” He began to steer the triplets back towards the front of the coffee shop.

Knowing better than to protest, Isadora walked back the way they had came, dreading just what sort of task was waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming back and reading more of The Coffeeshop Fire!
> 
> The next chapter is already being written, though as it is going to be on the long side, I'm not sure I will be able to have as quick a turn around time. Fingers (or hooks) crossed. 
> 
> And yes, Count Olaf's last name is going to be revealed at some point. Olaf is not his last name.


	5. Triptych of a Friday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The youngest Snicket comes bearing gifts.

It hadn’t taken Larry long after moving in with Jacquelyn four years ago to realize that he could tell exactly what kind of day his best friend had had at the bank just by the way she entered the apartment. On a good day, sometimes the sound of her humming could be heard over the jangle of keys. Those had grown fewer and fewer since her boss’s promotion. Now most days the door flew open with a bang. 

Today was no exception.

Even though he had been expecting it, Larry found himself jumping up reflexively from the sofa at the noise, almost sending his copy of _Swan’s Way_ to the floor. “Difficult day, I take it,” he said, offering his roomate a sympathetic smile.

As she bent down at the waist to remove her pumps, Jacquelyn looked across the living room to Larry sitting. “Mr. Poe always finds a way to make it difficult,” she said with a sigh. Three inches shorter, Jacquelyn stood her her stocking feet on the welcome mat. She stretched and rotated her head, her neck and back emitting several loud cracks in the process. 

“You don’t have to work for him,” Larry said. “You can find another job.”

“Not one that pays half as well or offers health insurance,” muttered Jacquelyn, pointing out what Larry knew to be completely true. She started for the kitchen and vanished from his line of sight.

Larry heard the subtle suck as the refrigerator door was pulled open, and the clink of something being set down on the countertop. He didn’t need to hear the low, resonant uncorking of the wine bottle to know what Jacquelyn had gone to retrieve. “Pour me a glass too,” he called out, placing his bookmark on his last page. As he returned the book to its place on the shelf, Jacquelyn emerged from the kitchen carrying two glasses of white wine. “Thank you.” He took one from her. 

Jacquelyn held up the remaining glass and gave it a clink against Larry’s. “To the weekend, dry wine, and the fact that for the next forty-eight hours we can associate with only people who know the difference between ‘literally’ and ‘figuratively.’” She took a giant swig of wine.

“Really? I thought that you explained it to him.” 

“He forgot,” Jacquelyn said, eyes flashing. “Like he always does.” She took another hearty drink of wine and swallowed. “Man’s like a child, except children have an imagination.” 

The times that he had met Mr. Poe had been few and far between, but every encounter had somehow left him feeling somewhat disappointed, even if he expected nothing from the man who employed his friend. 

“I hope your day was better than mine,” Jacquelyn continued, gracefully sitting down in her favorite armchair, knees pressed together at the hem of her navy-blue pencil skirt. “What’s life like with a boss who reads something other than The Daily Punctilio?”

Still standing, Larry shrugged his shoulders. “I really can’t complain.” Next to what he knew Jacquelyn had to put up with, cutting himself with a bagel knife really wasn’t anything. Besides, the wound had stopped bleeding before Olivia had come back down from the upstairs library to join him and Jacques again to help with the lunchtime crowd. After that had died down, he had been able to go back home. With his bike fixed, he hadn’t even had to wait for the trolley to come by. And any day that he didn’t have to clean the bathrooms was certainly a good day at a job. Thinking about work brought him back to the idea that had been percolating in his mind all day. “Actually, I do have an idea that I wanted to run by you.”

“What sort of an idea?” asked Jacquelyn, curiousity brightening up her eyes. 

“Okay, well remember the librarian I told you about?”

“Dewey. Of course.” Jacquelyn sipped again from her wine glass. 

Larry shook his head. “No the other one.”

“Frank? Ernest?”

“No, the other librarian, not the other Denouement,” said Larry. Noticing the bright red smirk pressed against the rim of the glass, Larry could see that Jacquelyn was goading him. 

“So what about your new co-worker?” asked Jacquelyn. 

“Well-” Larry nervously drummed his fingers on the cool wine glass, “-she’s got kind of a bad situation with her landlord, and I haven’t mentioned this to her yet, but I was thinking, maybe she could be our third roommate,” Larry said, watching Jacquelyn’s expression.

The blonde tilted her head, humming in thought. She swirled the pale gold wine around in the glass. “It has been quiet around here since Gustav moved in with Monty,” she mused.

The mention of their friend and former roommate brought back to Larry so many great memories that had taken place at their apartment. He truly was happy that Gustav’s relationship with Monty had progressed to the point that they were living together, especially given just how long distance the relationship had been, but it had been strange to not have the scientist or Rolf his pet iguana wandering around the apartment. For the past two months, his empty room had seemed like a crater where a tooth had once been, and it was hard not to open the door to his room and remember when it had been filled with life. 

“And having three people to chip in for rent instead of just us two will be nice,” continued Jacquelyn. “The past two months have been a little bit tight. I’d like to eat out again or go to the theatre sometimes.” She shrugged her shoulders, “Why don’t you invite her to dinner, and I can meet her. If we all seem to get along, you can suggest the idea to her. Who knows if she has a lease or pays month to month.” 

That was a situation that Larry hadn’t considered. From what Olivia had told him, he had assumed that her landlord was the sort who preferred not to have a contract of any kind. “Regardless of whether or not she decides to take us up on the offer,” Larry said, “I’m confident that you two will get along very well. She’s got a sharp acumen, has read every book I’ve brought up with her so far… Oh, you can practice French with her, since she studied it in college-”

Jacquelyn held up her hand. “I’ve already agreed to meet her,” she laughed. “So unless you’re trying to set me up again, you don’t need to convince me further.”

Wincing a little at the memory of the failed date that he had orchestrated between Jacquelyn and the youngest member of his mothers’ book club, Larry said, “Don’t worry. I learned my lesson.”

Smiling, Jacquelyn said, “Good.”

***

Dinner had needed to be postponed. While the triplets’ parents hadn’t been too thrilled to wait longer than they had anticipated for the five of them to all sit down together at the dinner table, they had agreed that Isadora and Duncan needed to bathe for the sake of everyone around them.

Isadora had been so desperate to take off the wet, stained, and smelly clothes as soon as she had gotten home that she had peeled them off and thrown them on the bathroom floor. She nearly ran to the shower, not caring that it hadn’t even had the time to warm up. It had taken a lot of soap and scrubbing under the nails for Isadora to feel something close to clean again after having had to spend her afternoon scraping the filth off cups and instruments that had been sitting in the bottom of the coffee shop’s sink. 

After having scrubbed the last plate off, Duncan and Isadora had barely had a minute to bask in the glory of their accomplishment before they had stepped into to kitchen and remembered just how many more dishes, pots, pans, and other cooking ware they had left to clean. The two hadn’t even had the satisfaction of being able to load the dishes into the dishwasher; when they had opened the device revealing a forgotten mold-crusted load, a musty stench had turned both their stomachs. The smell even turned the heads of the white faced twins as the worked on the other side of the kitchen, though neither woman offered any advice or explanation, only wrinkled noses and looks of disgust. Before the Quagmires had been able to decide just how to approach the situation, they had heard the footsteps of their boss. 

“I’ve closed the coffee shop for the day,” Count Olaf had announced to the four employees in the kitchen. “I am not going to pay any of you for staying a minute later, so get out now.” 

Almost reluctantly, Isadora had gotten to her feet. There seemed something wrong about leaving the kitchen in a worst state than it had been when they had arrived with dishes now piled up on the floor in addition to the counters and sink. But, Isadora had little interest in staying at The Firebrand after hours. She had been surprised when Count Olaf had handed her and Duncan a small wad of bills. As the two had waited for the trolley to arrive, she had counted it to find that it was barely more than adult minimum wage - more than she had been expecting from the boss who had hired them not even bothering to properly learn their names.

Despite her efforts, Isadora couldn’t say that she felt properly clean after her unusually long shower, but her fingertips had begun to prune and she felt guilty for keeping her family waiting, so she had gotten out and quickly dressed herself in fresh pajamas. At least she felt cleaner and she could no longer smell the horrendous odor from the dishwasher.

As she padded into the dining room, she heard her father say with a laugh, “Maybe breakfast for dinner would have been more appropriate than chicken pot pie.”

Isadora glanced at her brothers and saw that they, like her, had chosen to change into bedclothes. The matching wet, slicked back hair confirmed that Isadora had spent far too long in the shower; both of her brothers had had to time to bathe in the time it took for her to feel ready to face society. 

“We’re hardly formal here,” her mother said with a smile, sitting down across from Duncan. 

“How do you explain the crystal glassware?” asked Mr. Quagmire as he began to serve the pie. 

“You know I’m partial to the surreal and absurd,” his wife said. “Also I like the prism effect.” 

Isadora sat down next to Duncan and Quigley. “Sorry for making you wait for me,” she apologized.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mrs. Quagmire said. “First days of work can be overwhelming, and when your job is messy, wanting to take a shower afterwards is completely understandable.”

“It brings to mind our first day in Paltryville,” reminisced Mr. Quagmire.

“I thought we agreed not to talk about that,” said Mrs. Quagmire. “Besides they don’t want-”

“I think the children are old enough to hear about our honeymoon.”

“No,” interjected the triplets in unison.

“If you are ever wondering if we’re old enough for that, the answer will always be no,” Duncan quickly said, taking a plate from his father and passing it down to Isadora.

“Even if we’re a hundred,” continued Quigley as he accepted a plate from their mother. “Never going to be ready for-”

“Or want to,” added Isadora.

“-hearing about that.”

The triplet’s father gave a shrug and glanced towards his wife, who was smugly smiling. He finished serving the pie, giving himself the last slice, and sat down. “Well, you three are missing out on a very amusing story, so that’s your loss.”

Mrs. Quagmire sighed and shook her head. 

The rest of the meal proceeded the way most did in the Quagmire family. There were questions about their day. Isadora shared the best couplet she had written that day: _Please resign, Nero/Then you’d be a hero_. Quigley recounted a conversation he had had with his boss about indigo dye and its unique properties. Duncan had taken out his commonplace book to take a few notes, deciding that the concept was worthy of further investigation. 

Once their plates had been cleared except for the peas that Quigley refused to touch, the triplets got to their feet, picking up their plates and flatware, but before they could head to the kitchen, their mother cleared her throat. 

“There’s something we’d like to talk to you about,” she said.

“What about?” asked Duncan as he sat back down at the table, his siblings quickly following suit.

“Your education.”

“Or lack thereof,” interjected Mr. Quagmire darkly.

The triplets exchanged confused but inquisitive looks.

“It’s no secret that we haven’t been pleased with the education you have been receiving at Prufrock recently,” Mrs. Quagmire began.

“The school has really gone downhill since Valencia, Francine, and Dunbar were forced out of the school board,” Mr. Quagmire said with a sigh, shaking his head. “When you started in elementary school, the worst that could said about the place was the sort that could be said of any school: tenure does not belong in grade schools.”

His wife nodded. “It’s not the same school as it was then. Certainly not the same school we went to, and after those bad financial decisions by the board, the hiring of Nero, and so man other bad choices… well, we started to look around for other options.” She smiled at her children. “We put you on the waiting list for several schools in the area at the start of the year and today we got news from one of them.”

“Wade Academy has a spot that has opened up,” their father said, cutting to the chase. “And they can promise us two spots at the start of next term.”

Stunned, the teenagers didn’t know where to look - their mother or their father or at each other. Isadora felt the questions bubbling up inside her, but before she could ask them, Quigley spoke.

“So there’s just one spot available right now?” 

Their parents exchanged a glance before nodding. “Just for the next several weeks until term ends. At the start of the new term there will be-”

“So could we wait until the start of next term and-”

“They can only guarantee two spots at the start of next term,” said Mr. Quagmire dejectedly. “The spot opening up now ensures that all three of you will be able to attend Wade Academy together starting next term.”

“But we’ve got to split up for the time being,” surmised Duncan.

Isadora felt something clench in her stomach, a very unpleasant situation following what had otherwise been a good meal. 

“Just for a few weeks,” said Mrs. Quagmire. “Not even two months and then there will be the break and-”

“Why can’t they just hold the spot for us?” asked Duncan.

Their father shook his head. “Money. Simple as that. It’s not in their best interest. Why wait for someone’s tuition when they can get someone off the waitlist who’s more than willing to pay the money? Even with a prorated tuition, they still gain a fair bit.”

“So we’ve got to choose,” Isadora said quietly, “between the three of us who goes and who stays?”

“I’m…” started Mr. Quagmire, “we’re afraid so.” He swallowed and looked down.

“We can discuss it together, all five of us,” said Mrs. Quagmire. “The Academy has given us the weekend to decide what we are going to do. We can make this decision as a family… whether we take this opportunity or decide to wait and see whether Wade Academy will be able to accept all three of you next term or we wait and hope another school can take you.” 

From the way her mother bit her lip, Isadora felt that it was more likely than not that her parents’ optimism had run out months ago. She couldn’t think of any other reason for her parents to share this less than appealing possibility with the three of them. If there were any other possible options out there for the three Quagmire children, the parents, who had spent years insisting that old Rolfe had gone to herd cows with other dogs at the Valorous Farm Dairy, would have waited for them.

***

As the plates were cleared away, Jacques wondered if it was time to finally admit that the hours of internal turmoil had been proven entirely unwarranted. All the debates that had gone on in his mind as to whether or not to tell Beatrice just who had come back to the city now seemed entirely superfluous. The all too familiar pangs of disappointment started up again as he caught sight of the worry etched deeply on his twin’s face as she returned the unused setting to the cabinet.

Sensing Jacques’s gaze, Kit turned to him. “I was pretty sure he wouldn’t come, but still I was hoping,” she confessed wearily. “I should have known better.”

Jacques started towards her. “We all were,” he said softly. 

“It’s just, it’s been years, and I worry,” she continued, her voice rising a little bit higher.

Now at her side, Jacques reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. 

Kit gave a small sigh and took a deep breath in. “I’m sure we’ll get a postcard from him in… Thailand or somewhere in South Asia, apologizing profusely,” she said. “Like the last time.” 

“Hopefully this time it won’t be written as a mirror image of a postcard,” said Jacques lightly, hoping the amusing parts of Lemony’s antics would distract them both from the sting of neglect. “Still haven’t figured out what possessed him to do that.”

A tiny smile crept on Kit’s face, despite the fact that she looked like she was still about to burst into tears. “Oh, that’s because of Dewey.”

“What about your… whatever term you’re using to describe yourselves these days,” teased Jacques, remembering just how hard it had been to explain to Olivia who Dewey was to him, just like it had been every time he had had to introduce Dewey to someone for the past few years. 

Kit rolled her eyes and gave a half annoyed, half playful glare at her brother. “Comrade.”

“You’re really too old to be play acting at being a Marxist,” joked Jacques, easing into the old bit between the two of them as comfortably as putting on a pair of worn slippers as the end of the day. 

With a slight scoff, Kit started towards the common room. “Associate.” 

“From the Latin _associat-_ which means ‘joined.’” Jacques followed his twin. 

Kit glanced over her shoulder to fix Jacques with a smirk. Before she could offer her retort, which would have inevitably been something explicit enough to make Jacques regret having brought the subject up, the door to the bedroom opened, and Dewey emerged. “There’s my favorite associate,” Kit said, grinning, without a trace of the sadness left on her face. She walked up to him and got up on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his shoulders and pull his face down for a quick kiss on the neck. 

“My comrade,” laughed Dewey. He bent down to return the kiss. 

Jacques shook his head at the two and made his way to the sofa laiden with piles of books and papers. He didn’t need to read the titles or see the looping cursive to know that the mess was his sister’s. Never in the many years that Jacques had known him had Dewey ever done anything that quite reached the level of disorganization that counted as Kit’s most organized state. As Jacques removed a small stack of books from the sofa, he heard Kit speak.

“I was just about to tell Jacques about why Lemony likes to write you from right to left.”

Dewey grinned. “Back when when we were all in school, my brothers and I would pass notes back and forth in class, and to avoid anyone else from being able to read what we had written, we all learned how to write everything with a certain chirality that flummoxed anyone who happened to intercept our notes. Our teachers all thought we were writing in Russian.” He sat down on the stool at his secretarial desk. “I mentioned it to Lemony once, years ago, and now every time he writes to me, the lettering’s reversed.” 

Finally able to take a seat on the sofa after carving out a place for him, Jacques said, “Reminds me of Lemony with his codes and anagrams that he and his friends used.” His voice had grown softer as he had spoke and glanced over to Kit who stood by the window, watching the flickering of the two candles on the corner table. Jacques couldn’t tell if she had even heard him or whether she had become too lost in thought as Dewey spoken for her to realize just what he had said.

“That really doesn’t surprise me,” said Dewey, reaching down to stroke their cat as he slunk by.

Jacques extended his hand, hoping to coax the black cat to wander his way, but a sudden rap on the door sent the cat running to hide between the sofa and the apartment’s wall. 

Jerked out of her thoughts, Kit almost jumped.

No one spoke, neither did they approach. Instead they waited, listening.

The person at the door began to knock a familiar rhythm on the door.

Beaming, Kit all but ran across the room and flung the door open, revealing a man with a hat covered his face in shadow. Despite the obscuring of his face, Jacques knew immediately who was at the door and got to his feet. 

“Sorry I’m late,” began the man.

“A phrase which here means: I wanted to make a dramatic entrance,” interrupted Kit with a laugh. She threw her arms around him. “Welcome home, Lemony.” Her voice was muffled by the tight embrace. As Jacques and Dewey joined her at the threshold, Kit pulled away. “I thought that you-”

“That I had decided that instead it was necessary for me to be as far away from here as possible,” supplied Lemony with a nod of his head. “Previous behavior informs our expectations, so I cannot fault you for assuming that.” He reached up and removed his hat, revealing dark hair flecked with a few strands of grey that Jacques would have sworn had not been there the last time he had seen him.

“But you’re here,” said Jacques. 

Lemony gave his brother an uneven smile, as if he had forgotten how. “Finally.” He reached into the messanger bag strapped across his chest and removed a green bottle. “And I come bearing gifts.” 

“You needn’t have,” said Dewey. “You know Jacques keeps us well stocked with absinthe.”

Jacques hadn’t been about to tell Lemony that it had only been five Fridays ago that he had brought a bottle of that exact same liquor brand as a host gift for Kit and Dewey, but due to Dewey’s unfortunate honesty, all he could do was say, “Between me and Kit, it will be drunk.” He then leaned forward to wrap his arms around his little brother. “I’ve missed you so much, Lemony.” As he felt Lemony’s own embrace, he gave a squeeze. “Hard to believe you’re actually here.”

“I know,” murmured Lemony. “I know. But I’m here. I really am.” He disentangled himself from Jacques’ hug and stepped properly into the apartment, surveying the place to see just what had changed since he had been here last. 

Jacques tried to see at Dewey and Kit’s living room the way Lemony was, trying to remember just when Dewey had gotten into clockwork and whether or not Kit had put up the fairy lights in the window then. Ultimately, though, he found himself staring at Lemony, a lump forming in his throat. He heard the sounds from the kitchen as someone took out the clinking liquor glasses and cracked ice out of the tray, but he didn’t dare look away from the man who had been an enigma for the past fifteen years. 

Catching sight of the black cat emerging from behind the sofa, whiskers flicking tentatively, the youngest Snicket bent down to offer his hand to the cat. “Hey, Ink,” he whispered. “Remember me?” The cat sniffed at the air before going to rub up against Lemony, purring loudly. Perhaps sensing the intensity of his brother’s gaze, Lemony straightened up and turned around to look at Jacques. The younger brother opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a voice from the kitchen cut him off.

“Where are you staying, Lemony?” asked Dewey.

The out of practice smile returned to Lemony’s face and he walked into the kitchen. “Hotel Denouement, of course.” 

“Excellent,” said Dewey with a grin. “Are my brothers treating you well?” He poured the green liquor into the glasses.

“You’re actually the first Denouement I’ve seen today.”

Dewey looked up at Lemony. “I would have thought that they would-”

“I checked in using a pseudonym.”

Kit let out a sigh. “Again with the fake names?” 

With a shrug of his shoulders, Lemony said, “Old habits are hard to break; an awful adage, but in this case entirely true. Though, I am happy to say - a very rare condition for me to find myself in, I will admit - there are some habits that I have recently been able to shed.”

“What do you mean, Lemony?” asked Jacques, frowning deeply. His brother had never taken up the habit of chewing his fingernails, or eating far too many sweets, or even smoking. 

Lemony glanced over his shoulder, back to his brother. “The circumstances that led to my vagabond state are no more.” 

Uneasily, the Snicket twins and Dewey exchanged glances. Though Jacques was willing to allow that there might have been reasons Lemony had decided to vanish that he had not been privy to, the cause of his brother’s nearly sixteen years of phantoming around the globe was something that very much could not have been ameliorated. Having seen the responsible party not more than three hours ago lighting up inside his car, Jacques felt his doubt at Lemony’s proclamation was entirely warranted. 

Not noticing the expressions around him, Lemony once again reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a thick stack of papers held together with a strong binder clip. “Actually, it’s why I was late,” Lemony said. For the first time since he had knocked on the door, a natural smile bloomed on his face. “I was having a meeting with my kind editor.” He held out the papers so that Kit and Dewey could see.

Intrigued, Jacques entered the kitchen and walked around the table to take a look at Lemony’s manuscript. 

“‘The Reluctant Recruit,’” Dewey read out loud. “‘By Daniel Handler.’” Dewey looked up at Lemony. “A nom de plume?” 

“Who’s also a character in the story, but you don’t meet him until much later in the series,” explained Lemony eagerly.

“A series?” asked Kit, her eyes widening underneath her glasses. “You’re going to be publishing a whole series?”

“That’s what the contract says. Signed it about an hour ago. So there will be twelve more of these.” He handed the papers to Kit. “This is a copy. I want you three to be the first people to read it… well besides my editor and the people who helped get it to her.” 

“I’m honored,” said Kit, allowing her thumb to run down the thickness of the manuscript. She glanced over her shoulder to Dewey and Jacques. “Do you mind if I read it first?” she asked. When both men shook their heads, Kit said, “Well, then you two will have to put up with my annotations.” 

“I’ve dealt with worse,” replied Jacques with a smirk.

“This really is something to toast about,” said Dewey, going back to preparing the drinks the way he had seen the Snicket twins do it a hundred times before. Jacques could very well remember the first time he had shared a drink with Dewey and received a rather thorough explanation of the historically authentic way to serve the liquor. Despite Dewey’s lessons, he had never managed to convince either twin that sugar belonged in their favorite alcoholic drink. “I can’t wait to recommend the book to all the patrons at the library.” He handed each one of them a glass of the now opaque green drink.

Accepting her glass from Dewey, Kit lifted her cup up. “To Lemony. The soon to be published author.”

The rest held up their glasses and echoed her before taking their first sip from the bitter draught. 

 

The next two hours melted into each other, as Lemony recounted the adventures he had been on since the last time the three Snickets had been reunited. There was no denying that Lemony was an exceptional storyteller, and it had come as a surprise when Dewey had announced that it was almost midnight. Jacques and Lemony had gotten up, offered their thanks and goodbyes for the evening, and found themselves alone in the hall.

“How is she?” Lemony’s voice was so soft that Jacques would have missed it as he descended down the stairs if he hadn’t been expecting it. 

Jacques had known that there was no way Lemony would make it a whole night without asking about her. There was no uncertainty in Jacques’ mind that had Dewey not interrupted him, Lemony would have asked that very question while they had stood in the living room with Ink. Jacques forcefully exhaled, as if he could breathe out the past decade and a half from their lives. He about faced so he could see his brother, still on the landing of Kit’s floor. “She’s doing really well,” he said. “Doing well, and doing good.” Before his brother could respond, he went on, “Please do both of yourselves a favor and stay away from her.”

Lemony’s chest heaved, as if he were readying himself for verbal combat.

“She’s happy with Bertrand. She’s got a baby… well, she’s more a toddler now,” corrected Jacques. The effect of the shot’s worth of liquor hadn’t completely left his system he realized the more he spoke. “And she’s really happy, Lemony. And you’re… you’re better than I’ve seen you in a long time.” Granted, he had only seen his younger brother a handful of times since his first disappearing act. “Please. Let the Baudelaires be.”

Shaking his head, Lemony descended, passing Jacques on the stairs.

“Lemony,” said Jacques.

His brother persisted.

“Lemony!” he called.

Almost rounding the bend in the staircase out of Jacques’ sight, Lemony looked up. “I just want to know she’s happy with the life she’s chosen,” he said feebly. “I’m content with that.” He started up again, and try as he might, Jacques couldn’t catch up with his brother as he rushed down the staircase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy fanfiction Friday! It just so happens that I'm posting this on a Friday night at the time that the last scene takes place. I swear that was not intentional, but it just worked out that way.
> 
> Finally all the main threads of the story have been introduced and the plot can really take off. MUHAHAHA. :D Buckle your seatbelts, peeps, you're in for a fun ride.
> 
> I have a couple shout outs for this chapter, though I doubt anyone I'm shouting out will be reading this. Thank you Uncle H. for your childhood stories that inspired the Denouement triplet's adventures in backwards notes. Thank you A. for talking about your partner in pretty much the way that Dewey and Kit talk about each other, showing me from a fairly young age that adults and their relationships are weird... even to other adults. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think with comments and kudos. (Please feed me, Seymour.)  
> -Morgan


	6. Eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for just how long it has taken me to finish this chapter. I hope that you are able to enjoy it regardless of the length of time it took to get here.

The trolley was far more crowded than she had expected it to be this early on a Saturday morning. When she had boarded the trolley with Duncan, they had needed to stand for a couple of stops before there was enough room on the bench for the both of them to sit down. With a sigh, Isadora rested her head on her brother’s shoulder and closed her eyes, wishing she were back in bed. The next thing she was aware of was Duncan shrugging vigorously to try to jostle her awake.

“I’m up,” she said, groggily. “Are we there?” She rubbed her eyes and looked out the window at the still dark shops that the trolley rumbled past.

“No, next stop,” Duncan answered. As Isadora let out a yawn, he smiled and said, “You should get a cup of Joe when we get to The Firebrand.”

Isadora rolled her eyes. She felt the trolley already beginning to slow down. “Right, because that bathroom there looks like just the sort of place I want to spend the day in before getting taken to the hospital.” The thought of the cramped, smelly washroom was enough to make Isadora shudder. If there was one disgusting thing she hoped her boss did, it would be that he would never ask her to clean that room. She doubted anyone, even someone with an iron constitution and an arm with the strength of steel could do anything about the rust and lime.

Duncan got to his feet. “To be fair, the water does get boiled, so if you were to get a cup that was reasonably clean and just let the whole thing drip over into your cup instead of into one of those pots… then maybe you wouldn’t come down with dysentery. Maybe.” They started walking towards the front of the trolley, even though it still was moving on the track. “I want to know who he’s bribing in the Health Inspector’s office,” Duncan said, his voice dropping so low that Isadora could barely hear it over the breaks. “No way he can legally be allowed to keep the place that disgusting.”

Offering a small nod, Isadora agreed. “I’d lick that bench before I ate something made there.” 

The trolley came to a screeching stop, and two triplets disembarked from the trolley and started their way down the roads that had become increasingly familiar over the past few days. They passed few people on the street: a couple shopkeepers opening up for business, some harried business people rushing by with shiny shoes and briefcases. As they crossed officially into the beverage distract, they were welcomed by the snoring of a man on a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor apartments from an establishment the two wouldn’t be allowed in for several years yet.

_In the end, it was too much to bear,  
To bother climbing up that last stair._

She turned to her brother, eager to share her latest composition, but as the two of them rounded the corner onto final block, her mouth dropped open. “They can’t be…” she started. Even though each step brought her closer to the small line of people that lead out the door, she couldn’t accept that they were all waiting to go into The Firebrand.

“‘Curiouser and curiouser,’” breathed Duncan, quoting one of their favorite books. He pulled his commonplace book out and flipped to page that already had several barely legible notes hastily scribbled there. In a few quick strokes he added, _Line. 6 outside._ He returned the notebook to his shirt pocket - a worn shirt that he had technically outgrown, but could still wear when the situation called for clothing that was going to wind up wrecked.

Silently, the two continued towards the coffee shop, trying to avoid staring at those lined up the way that they had seen children gape at animals in the zoo. As they bypassed the line, there were a few grumblings. “We work here,” Isadora said, almost adding an ‘unfortunately’ after. She pushed open the door to find the line continued across the sawdust strewn floor all the way up to the register. Instead of Count Olaf waiting for them behind the counter, two unfamiliar men busily took orders, poured coffee, and managed the cash register.

The tall, bald one caught sight of them after handing a styrofoam cup to a pinch-nosed woman and nudged his companion. The shorter man spun around to face the Quagmires. Isadora had to exercise extreme self-control to not let her eyes widen or linger as she realized that instead of hands the man had two hooks. She forced herself to look up, meeting the man’s gaze.

“Twins!” he said. “Don’t just stand around.”

The triplets approached the men, sending up bits of sawdust with each step.

With his two hooks, the short man motioned for them to come around behind the counter. Duncan and Isadora obliged.

“Pour,” the bald one said, forcing a full pot of steaming coffee into Isadora’s hands.

Unprepared to properly hold the hot glass, Isadora instinctively grasped her hands around the pot, only to a moment later let out a cry of pain. The coffee pot plummeted to the floor with a clank and a shatter. As the scalding liquid seeped through her sneakers and soaked her jeans, Isadora heard the tall man say, “Boss isn’t going to like that.”

The hook-handed man glanced up from the cash register. “He did say not to expect much.”

Isadora could feel a heat building on the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the steaming coffee that now soaked her bottom half. Though they had not worked there long and she had found none of the work to her liking, Isadora instinctively wanted to defend the small dent she and her brother had made in the mess that was this establishment.

“Am I going to have to wait for another pot to brew?” whined the customer standing at the register. “I’ll be late.”

“Not to worry,” said the hook-handed man brightly. “We always have several pots going this time of day.”

The bald man took a styrofoam cup from the stack on the counter and handed it to Duncan before directing him to the several pots of coffee in various states of brewing or emptiness. “Give him the house blend,” he said.

Duncan looked apprehensively at the brews and glanced up at the bald man. “And that’s the…” He reached out and took the nearest pot. When the man didn’t object, he poured the coffee and walked over to the cash register.

“Now you,” said the man, returning his attention to Isadora, who still stood in the middle of the cooling puddle, “do you think you can grind the coffee without sticking your fingers in the grinder? We don’t need to lose any more hands.” With a nod of his shiny head, he indicated the hook-handed man who was pressing the buttons of the cash register as adroitly as if they were his natively.

If it was meant to be a joke, she wasn’t laughing. “I don’t think it will be an issue,” said Isadora with gritted teeth. Between the implications over her own abilities and the insensitivity of the comment, Isadora was fairly sure her newest co-worker was a fairly despicable man. But, she reminded herself as she took her position at the large coffee bean grinder, this was a fairly despicable place.

She knew better than to wait for instructions. No one here seemed to be interested in giving either triplet proper training, and she didn’t want to summon the bald man or his annoyance. Assessing the grinder, she thought it looked straightforward enough. A scoop rested in one of several glass jars of beans of slightly varying shades. She reached in and filled the scoop with beans, transferring them to the waiting grinder. She minded the blades, unsure whether the brown stuff on them was rust or coffee grounds. She closed the lid and pressed the button. Instantly, a vibration coursed through her arms, and she held the button down tighter with both hands until finally she felt a change in the movement. As she opened up the grinder, she paused.

The rich fragrance of the earthy grounds wafted up to her. She had smelled fresh coffee before – her parents drank it every morning, and the teachers’ lounge always seemed to have a pot brewing whenever she passed it on her way to Language Arts. The scent had always struck her as an acrid, sharp sensation, strong enough to make her wonder just why adults bothered with the stuff. The grounds she had just made, however, invited her in, asking her to breathe deeply to fill herself with more of the ambrosial aroma.

She straightened up and turned to her brother, meeting his gaze. From the bemused expression on his face, Isadora immediately knew that Duncan had come to the exact same conclusion she had. The Firebrand’s house blend was something extraordinary.

***

As the earliest inklings of awareness crept up on her, the first thing Kit noticed was the sharp coolness of the air around her exposed leg dangling over the side of the bed. She tucked her leg back under the warmth of the blankets and rolled onto her side, facing Dewey. She pressed herself against him so her face was propped up on his shoulder into the crook of his neck and squeezed her eyes shut tighter and listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing, hoping it would help her find sleep again. It was Saturday, and she had absolutely no reason to be up quite this early. Just as she had started to drift off, the alarm clock reminded her that that was not the case for Dewey. He stirred underneath her. Wrapping her left arm around his bare chest she murmured, “Dewey.”

The alarm clock rudely blared on.

Kit could feel Dewey shifting as he reached for the clock radio on the nightstand. The loud beeping mercifully ceased. Groaning, Dewey pushed himself up into a sitting position, forcing Kit to rest her head on the ridge of his hip.

“Kit,” the librarian said softly.

Kit hummed into the skin his thigh and tightened her grip around him. 

“Kit.”

She could hear the smile in his voice.

“I know you don’t like it when I work weekends, but if the library is going to be open, somebody had to be there.”

“Can’t we just stay like this,” she mumbled, her lips kissing him with each syllable. “Just for a few minutes.” Mornings like this were supposed to be savored, not rushed through. 

“Last time a few minutes turned into an hour, and Hal was beside himself.”

She forced herself into a sitting position, allowing Dewey to throw the covers off himself and planting both his feet down on the worn wooden floor. She watched as he walked to the chair where his robe hung. A soft sigh of disappointment escaped her lips as he wrapped himself in the dark red fabric, which earned an appreciative smirk from the librarian as he made his way to the closet. Ink snaked himself between Dewey’s footsteps, meowing to remind them of his favorite part of their morning routine. 

“I’ll get him his breakfast,” said Kit, abandoning the covers that had become noticeably cooler without her bedmate. She picked up the sleep-shirt that had been forgotten the night before and tugged it over her head. As she freed her dirty blonde hair from the back of the shirt, she continued, “And make us some… are there eggs?”

“Did you do the shopping?”

Kit looked up at the ceiling and sighed, “Guess I’ll improvise something.” She had known she was forgetting something yesterday, but between teaching two classes, office hours, and a meeting with a first year who had failed yet another exam, she had lost her to-do list. At least she had remembered to go to the pharmacy and buy stamps. Two out of three tasks wasn’t bad. Then again, she had failed the student who gotten that same percentage on the exam. “I’ll be sure to go today.”

“I can pick them up,” said Dewey, arms now laiden with the outfit he had picked out.

“No, I’ll do it,” Kit insisted. She picked up the pen on her bedside table and after a few tries managed to scrawl out E-G-G-S on her forearm. “See.” She pointed to the large letters. “I won’t forget it now. I’ll be reading Lemony’s book, and I’ll look down and…” She feigned a theatrical expression of surprise that she knew was better than ones she had seen certain actors give on stage, “I’ll remember! We need eggs!”

Detouring towards her, Dewey shook his head and gave her a quick kiss. “We need eggs… and about ten other things. I’ll write you a list.”

An annoyed yowl came from the doorway. 

“I know, I know,” Kit told the black cat as she headed towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you that breakfast.”

***

Weary monotony did not mix well with the sharp clip of the morning crowd at The Firebrand. Isadora emptied what had to be the hundredth soggy coffee filter out, and for the first time when she looked up, there wasn’t a grouchy businessman staring back at her, annoyed by how long it was taking to get coffee. She turned to Duncan. “What was that?” she said, leaning against the counter.

“Saturday morning,” supplied the hook-handed man. 

“You should see a weekday morning,” said the bald man.

Duncan shrugged his shoulders and pulled out his commonplace book to make a few quick strokes before he shoved it back in his pocket. “You get a lot of business, then?” 

Both men nodded.

“I’m… it’s a little… I’m,” began Duncan, casting his gaze from the overflowing trash bin to the grimy windows. “Surprised.” The word came out higher and softer than how he usually spoke. 

Not seeming to notice Duncan’s implication, “It’s the best coffee in the city,” said the hook-handed man while the other nodded. The man spoke with such absolute certainty and pride that Isadora for a moment actually considered taking a cup for herself before she remembered exactly where she was and just how little she wanted anything from here inside her mouth. 

“Boss has some of the best connections,” the man went on. “He knows which growers make the best stuff, knows the roasters and distributors, and every brew in here is an original.”

Isadora didn’t exactly follow what the shorter man was saying, but Duncan seemed to have caught on. “So they’re all unique? Uniquely crafted blends?” the investigative journalist asked.

Both adults nodded.

“Envy of all coffee shops in the city,” the bald man said in a deep voice.

“Even though it looks like this?” Isadora couldn’t stop herself from saying.

“Like what?” the tall one asked.

Isadora bit her lip and glanced over to Duncan who sighed. She hoped that she hadn’t said something that would jeopardize his ability to ask questions. “It’s not really… it’s not like the other coffee shops here,” she stammered. “Very… very unique.” She had no idea how they could not be completely aware of how unhygienic the place seemed. Even accounting for various standards of cleanliness, The Firebrand was still a mess. 

“People like unique,” the hook-handed man said.

Perhaps Count Olaf paid them well enough so their loyalty was bought - even if they were completely aware of just how terrible their working conditions were, or they were somehow brainwashed. Isadora made a mental note to tell Duncan her theory as soon as they were alone as she watched the tall man excuse himself and make his way to the back room. 

With no instructions as to what to do during this lull in sales - or return back to the usual level of business at The Firebrands - Isadora looked around for something to do. Making more coffee grounds seemed entirely pointless at this time, so she picked up a sad and soggy sponge from the sink. It was hard to tell if it was originally grey or if it had become grey. As she wrung the sponge out, she scowled at the color of the liquid that emerged. It was better than nothing though, and she quickly busied herself with wiping down the counter. A glance over at her brother, and she could see that he was putting a new garbage can liner in, the old bag already out and tied. 

Done, Duncan picked up the full garbage bag and headed in the direction of the back rooms, only to nearly collide with the tall man as he re-emerged from behind the dirty sheet divider. 

“ _Gunther’s_ here,” he said, providing emphasis on the unfamiliar name.

The effect on the hook handed man was instantaneous. His eyes widened before he let out a sigh. “Remember your omelets,” he said softly. At the identical confused expressions of his newest co-workers, he clarified, “You know the little-” he held up his arms and punctuated the air with both of his hooks, making a popping noise, “dots. On the u.”

“Do you mean umlauts?” Duncan asked. Isadora could hear the laughter hidden in his voice.

The man nodded. “Those. Remember them. Boss gets particular-”

“Who’s Gunther?” Isadora interrupted.

“It’s one of his characters,” sighed the hook handed man. “You know. Like Coach Genghis. Stephano. Shirley.”

“I think we’ve only met the coach,” Isadora said. “Does he have a lot of these characters?” 

“Never actually counted, but -” the hook handed man turned around as the sheet was lifted up, revealing a man far too well dressed to be about to spend the rest of his day working at a filthy coffee shop. 

His leather boots were pointed and polished, and the suit actually cut his figure close enough to have been tailored. His face stayed in a one sided squint as he approached the counter, keeping a monocle in place. Each step was matched by the staccato of a cane. Though the he had put effort into his personal appearance and wore a nametag that read “Gunther”, there was no mistaking the proprietor of The Firebrand. “Good mornings, all.” 

Isadora had to bite her lip to stop herself from bursting into hysterical laughter at the vaguely Central European accent. 

“I trust business good, yes,” he continued, joining the two men and teenagers behind the counter.

“Of course, Gunther,” the hook-handed man said. “Typical Saturday morning. Usual crowd. Usual-”

“But explain, please,” interjected Olaf, turning to gesture at the triplets with his walking stick, “why are children at counter.”

All four of his employees exchanged uncertain glances.

“To help with the crowd,” supplied the hook-handed man.

Olaf gave a disapproving frown. “Children are not for seeing or hearing, please. Helping in back-” he used his cane to point at the dividing sheet, “- please. They left, what’s the word, booby-trap of pots.”

At this point, Isadora could only roll her eyes and hurry towards the back with Duncan in tow, glad to finally be able to silently let the laughter out as they let the curtain fall behind them, blocking the adults from sight. When she finally stopped shaking from muted fits of laughter, she straightened up to see Duncan’s face twisted up in just as amused an expression as she knew she had to be wearing. ‘What the-’ she mouthed to her triplet.

From the other side of the curtain, they heard the tall man say, “I take it Esme is back in town.” There was a definitive whack of something distinctively cane-shaped colliding with a body. It was immediately followed by a yelp and a nervous giggle from the third man.

The triplets exchanged wide-eyed expressions and hotfooted the rest of the way to the kitchen.

***

“You can’t seriously be planning on eating that.”

Hal looked up from the container he was about to microwave to cast his co-worker an owl-eyed look. “It’s my lunch,” he said defensively. “I know you don’t think much of my cooking abilities, but I-”

“There’s mold.” Dewey had always tried to be diplomatic when it came to Hal’s cooking, but when it came down to a matter of health and safety, he knew it was time to be blunt. 

Frowning, Hal bent down to peer through his thick glasses at the left over curry he was about to pour over rice. “Those are pepper flecks,” insisted Hal indignantly. “They’ve been there-”

“At least a week longer than you’ve had that in the fridge,” interrupted Dewey again, already slicing his apple in half. “If you really want, I can go find Fiona and see what the budding mycologist thinks.” Before he had gone on his lunch break barely twenty minutes ago, he had asked the library’s page to man (or ‘woman’ as she had said) the circulation desk. Every time he brought the girl a new specimen to identify - whether from the ghastly garden behind his and Kit’s apartment building or something he had encountered unexpectedly - her face always lit up with excitement, and she almost always was able to name the fungus. Sometimes she needed to check one of the atlases in the library, but invariably, she identified the mold or mushroom. 

With a heavy sigh, Hal set the curry to the side. “I suppose it is on the old side.” He picked up his steaming plate of microwavable basmati rice and joined Dewey at the break room table. He accepted the half-apple from Dewey with a small nod. 

Guilt weighed in Dewey’s stomach, unsettling the lunch he had nearly finished, as he watched his co-worker scoop up a spoon full of abysmally plain rice. “I couldn’t just let you get sick,” Dewey apologized. “People have died from eating spoilt food.” 

Hal swallowed and said, “Don’t worry about it.” He went back to his lunch as avidly as if he were eating what he had intended to have today. 

Dewey finished his apple half in silence and got to his feet. “I’ll go and send Fiona on her break,” he said before leaving the break room and the awkward scene behind. It hadn’t been wrong to stop his friend from eating something that would make him ill, Dewey knew, but he still felt awful insisting that Hal not eat his lunch. 

As he approached the circulation desk, he slowed, a small smile on his face forming, washing away the uncomfortable thoughts. Klaus Baudelaire at the circulation desk, leaning on his elbows with a stack of books as he talked animatedly to the youngest library employee. Beatrice’s son was hardly an uncommon sight at the library - Dewey was fairly sure the boy had been coming in every weekend on his own since his parents had decided he was old enough to walk the several blocks to the library. Recently, however, the boy had been coming in more and more, and it hadn’t taken Dewey too long to connect Klaus’s visits with the shifts that Fiona had started taking as a library page. They took the same trolley some days and arrived at the same time; she always went off to shelve books or check the returned books back into the library, and he always found some excuse to talk to her at some point during her shift. 

Dewey knew that he had looked just as ridiculous when he had been only a year or two older than Klaus and he had pretended to not know anything about the system that shared his name just to have his favorite leather clad librarian help him find a book on some obscure topic. 

He reached the desk and greeted the two teenagers with a smile. “Fiona, if you want to take your lunch break now, there is some mold that wants to be identified that Hal might have not thrown out yet,” he said, brightly.

The future mycologist stood and smoothed out her sweater. “If it’s Hal’s curry, I already have a few ideas.” She gave Klaus a warm smile and a “See you later” before heading in the direction that Dewey had just come from.

Taking Fiona’s now vacated seat at the circulation desk, Dewey said, “Hello, Klaus. What can I help you with today?” He wondered what sort of excuse Klaus would come up with.

The teenager’s mouth still hung open in a shocked expression, staring after Fiona, seeming not to have even heard the librarian.

Dewey laughed a little and shook his head.

That got Klaus’s attention. “Uh, nothing, Mr. Denouement,” he said quickly, looking down at the fake marble pattern of the circulation desk, as if he suddenly found geology the most fascinating subject in the world. “I was just…”

“Just talking to Fiona.”

The boy fiddled with with glasses. 

“She’s seventeen.”

A flush crossed Klaus’s features. “I know,” he murmured. His voice was weary, as if it carried all the times he had thought about just how little a seventeen-year-old considered a thirteen-year-old as anything more than an adorable mascot. 

“I know,” Dewey sighed, offering Klaus a small expression of sympathy. He had tried to tell himself numerous times how it was a good thing that the librarian showed no interest in him, but it hadn’t stifled anything. “I can…” he gestured to the stack of books, “check these out for you.”

“Thanks,” Klaus said, eyes still fixed on the counter.

Dewey opened the cover of the first book. It wasn’t his place or at all appropriate for Dewey to share what else he knew having been in Klaus’s shoes, but he wanted to tell him how for another young bibliophile infatuated with an older librarian, the bibliophile had been able to come back, a librarian in his own right, and finally see just how ridiculous his teenage crush had been. And he knew that if Bertrand ever related the poorly anonymized version of Dewey and Dashiell’s short-lived relationship, Klaus’s father would be sure to emphasize just how amusing it had been to watch Dewey figure that out. 

“And here you go,” Dewey said as he handed Klaus his stack of books. “They’re due back two weeks from today.” 

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

Klaus gave a weak laugh. “I’ll tell my dad you send your regards,” he said before picking up his stack of books and departing.

***

“We’ve made a decision.”

Isadora looked up from her commonplace book at her identical brothers as they stood in the doorway of her bedroom. “About?” She leaned back against her headboard, already knowing what her brothers had discussed without her. 

“Wade Academy,” Duncan said, stepping inside. His hair was still wet from his post-work shower, slicked into a perfectly neat part. 

Her suspicions confirmed, Isadora let out a sigh. She set her pen down, frowning. “I thought we were going to talk about that together.” Their mother had told them that there was an expiration date on the matter of just who would take that one spot on the lifeboat away from the sinking Prufrock, but Isadora had been convinced that the three of them would discuss the matter.

“We knew you’d insist that we wait until next semester,” said Duncan. “Hoping there would somehow be three spots open.”

“That is what I think we should do,” Isadora said defensively. “We shouldn’t split up. It doesn’t make sense for us to go to separate schools.”

“We have to,” said Quigley, sitting down at the foot of Isadora’s bed. 

“There’s no guarantee that there will be three spots for fall,” explained Duncan. “At least not at Wade Academy.”

“There might be one spot at one academy. Another spot at another. If we’re lucky there might be two at one place.” Quigley shrugged his shoulders. “We’d be separated then, and there’s no way we’re going to start next year at Prufrock.”

“You need to take the spot at Wade,” pressed Duncan. “Three spots opening up this close to the start of next term for a ninth grade class isn’t going to happen. Schools admitted students for next term months ago.”

Isadora pressed her lips together tightly, trying to find an argument to use, but she knew that if Duncan was saying it, he had actually researched the matter and knew what he was talking about. Duncan would have read the papers and seen the articles about the admissions cycle for the private schools. “Why me?” she finally asked. “Don’t you guys want to leave Prufrock?”

Her brothers both laughed.

“Of course,” Quigley said. 

“I can’t wait to tell Carmelita which cake she can sniff,” chuckled Duncan.

“You could tell her to sniff a urinal cake on Monday and go to Wade on Tuesday,” said Isadora. “I don’t see why you think it should be me to go.”

The two brothers exchanged a quick glance before Duncan crossed his arms and said, “You’ve drawn the short straw so many times, Dora. With this project… you’ve decided to help me even if you don’t have to-”

“That’s what sisters do.”

“And this is what brothers do,” Duncan said firmly. 

“What if I refuse? What if I call: ‘All for one, and one for all.’” Isadora folded her arms, mirroring her younger triplet. “What if-”

“Then we’d have to find someone else from Wade Academy to teach us the material,” said Quigley slyly.

Suddenly understanding the plot her brothers had hatched, Isadora had to laugh. All things considered, even Isadora had to admit that it wasn’t the worst plan given the cards they had been dealt. “I’ll do it,” she finally said. “But you should know, I’ll be the toughest teacher you’ve ever had.”

“We’ve been at Prufrock since elementary school,” said Duncan. “You don’t have much competition.” 

All three triplets were in immediate consensus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! Please let me know what you think. Kudos and comments really make me smile and put me in the writing mood. 
> 
> Everything really takes off in the next chapter, and hopefully you'll have it a lot sooner than it took for me to write this chapter. You'll have a lot to look forward to: Olivia and Jacques, Violet and Isadora, Esme finally makes her entrance. 
> 
> I hope you have a Happy New Year!  
> -Huffleporg


End file.
